


Perspectives

by Morgan (morgan32)



Series: Predator Trilogy [2]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe, Darkfic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-23
Updated: 2005-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgan32/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <i>Predator</i>: Ten years after their first encounter, Blair Sandburg's search for a sentinel leads him back to Ellison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

#### April 2008

The rain was so heavy Blair could barely see the road ahead of him. He drew up to the gate and rolled the window down. The rain blew in at once and he squinted up the security guard's window.

"I'm Doctor Blair Sandburg," he announced, raising his voice to be heard above the wind and rain. "I'm expected."_I hope,_ he added silently.

"Got some ID?" the guard responded.

Blair fished out his driving license and handed it over. The guard looked at it closely, then again at Blair, and gave it back to him. "You're cleared, Doctor. I'll let them know you're on your way."

"Thanks!" Blair rolled the window back up as the tall gate slowly opened.

He parked as close to the main building as he could get, but he still got soaked on his way from the car to the main door. One of the guards on the door directed him to reception, where he again had to show his ID. "Doctor Stockwell should be expecting me," he reminded the man at the desk.

"She is, Doctor. Someone's on the way down to escort you to Stockwell's office. If you're carrying anything metal, you'll need to leave it here. You'll be searched before you go upstairs."

Blair nodded. He knew the regulations. He had read them over and over until he knew them inside out and backwards. He wasn't going to let anything go wrong today. "There's a metal button on my pants, but I'm sure that's all. You're not going to make me leave my pants behind, are you?" He tried to make it a joke.

"If they do, they'll give you something else to wear," the receptionist replied, deadpan.

The search was thorough but Blair submitted to it patiently and they did allow him to keep his own pants. Blair hadn't gone through mountains of red tape to give up now. He was at the last-but-one obstacle. He just had to get past Stockwell and then...

Stockwell's office was decorated to intimidate. A large desk dominated the room. Leather-bound books lined two of the four walls, a large, barred window filled a third. On a normal day, the window would have flooded the room with light, dazzling the person sitting opposite. Today, the terrible weather left the office dark enough to need electric light.

Doctor Stockwell was in her late fifties, a stocky woman almost exactly Blair's height. She wore a white lab coat over a dark suit. Blair doubted she ever saw the inside of a lab. Stockwell was more a prison warden than a doctor, though her qualifications were impressive. This place held some of the most dangerous men in the state, including the man Blair was here to see.

"Doctor Sandburg," Stockwell greeted him with false friendliness. "I'm surprised you made it here in this weather."

"If I hadn't you would have tried to block me again," Blair answered. "I'm here to see James Ellison. I have his consent, and the consent of his brother. You have a court order on file that says I can speak to him today."

Stockwell sat down behind the desk, inviting Blair to sit with a gesture. "I'm aware of all that, Doctor, but my responsibility is to my patient. What exactly do you hope to accomplish?"

Blair hesitated. He had been careful not to tell anyone too much about why he was so keen to interview Ellison. His involvement with the original case was enough to explain it to most people. It wasn't enough for Stockwell. Blair decided on his way to the asylum he would tell Stockwell at least part of the truth if she asked. She couldn't prevent him seeing Ellison today.

"I've read everything available about Ellison's case," Blair answered carefully. "I have some theories and I hope talking to him will confirm them. Or prove me wrong. If I'm right, I may be able to explain some of his behaviour."

"You are not a psychologist, Doctor Sandburg. Your doctorate is in anthropology."

"That's true. The reason I first became interested in Ellison is the time he spent in Peru twenty years ago. He assimilated completely with a native tribe which I later studied myself. No, I'm not qualified as a doctor. But I know things about James Ellison that no psychiatrist is going to get out of him."

"What is it you think you know?"

"After being lost in the jungle for more than eighteen months, Ellison was rescued by a special ops team. Shortly afterwards, the army discharged him as mentally unfit. The psychiatrist who recommended his discharge diagnosed possible schizophrenia based on his apparent hallucinations, a diagnosis with which you concur, true?"

"He's atypical, but yes. Most certainly."

"Yet the army never disclosed that diagnosis, an omission that enabled Ellison to join the police force in Cascade a year later. He never received treatment for schizophrenia, yet he exhibited no symptoms during that time. He functioned normally. He had an excellent record as a detective and a normal social life. His friends describe him using words like 'compassionate' and 'human'."

"Your point?"

"I'm not convinced it's schizophrenia. I think something happened to him in Peru, something that caused him to exhibit those symptoms, and perhaps led him to commit those murders. If I'm wrong..." Blair shrugged. "Well, no harm, no foul. But if I'm right, it has a serious bearing on his case. That's why the judge wants me to talk to him. I'd like to do so now, if you don't mind."

"Not so fast, Sandburg. I think this is a very bad idea, but I won't defy your court order. We keep Ellison in a padded cell, solitary, at his own request. The cell has been modified to allow him to receive visitors and you'll see him in there. Do not give him anything at all, do not get close to the screen, do not attempt to touch him, or the screen. Understand?"

"Yes."

Fifteen minutes and six locked doors later, Blair was standing outside a last door, waiting for the white-coated orderly to unlock the cell. There was a glass panel in the door; through it Blair could see the stark white of the padded wall within.

"All yours, Doc," the orderly - Craig - said as he straightened. "There's a camera in the cell and we'll be watching you the whole time. If you get in any trouble, we'll be with you in seconds. There's a buzzer on the right of the door, just hit the button when you're ready to leave, or if you need anything."

"Thanks," Blair answered. He took a deep breath, collecting himself. "Why the extreme precautions?" he asked nervously.

"Ellison's unpredictable. Most of the time he's a perfect gentleman but when he does turn violent it can get messy." Craig smiled. "Don't worry. You'll be fine and we'll be close by if you need us."

"I'll be fine," Blair repeated. Way to increase his confidence! This wasn't going to be an easy interview. Craig opened the door for him and Blair walked in.

The cell was fully padded, but bisected by a floor-to-ceiling screen that kept Ellison from interacting directly with any visitor. The screen was a reinforced steel mesh, like a security screen in a bank, with a slot near the ground that was presumably for food. The lights were on only on Blair's side of the screen. On the other side stood the man Blair had come to see.

Ellison's face was familiar, but then, it should be. Ten years earlier, Ellison's face was on the front of every newspaper in the USA. The cop who became the most notorious serial killer of the 1990s. Convicted for just three murders, but suspected of many more...no one but Ellison knew how many people he killed. He was sentenced to death but his mental state deteriorated rapidly following his conviction. The details were kept from the general public but Blair knew the psychiatric reports discussed his hallucinations and seizures. Blair suspected they were nothing of the kind, but three different psychiatrists convinced the court he was genuinely insane. The diagnosis saved Ellison's life.

Blair knew he was reciting the facts to himself to calm his nerves. He turned to face Ellison.

"Who the hell are you?" Ellison moved toward the glass, and Blair, but veered off, pacing the cell like a caged cat.

Blair answered calmly. "I'm Blair Sandburg. Doctor Sandburg. I..."

"I've seen enough doctors. I don't need any more." Ellison stopped pacing and met Blair's eyes suddenly. "I know you."

"Yes, we've met before. I wrote to you recently. You agreed to this visit."

Ellison spread his arms wide. "Well, take a good look, doctor. I'd invite you in, but..."

"Thanks, I'm fine right here." His stomach was full of butterflies. Blair's voice was steady, but it took effort. He watched Ellison warily. Ellison wore pale grey loose pants and a white T-shirt. His feet were bare. His hair was somewhat thinner than Blair remembered but still cropped short. He was clean-shaven, which seemed to indicate he was trusted with a razor, at least.

Ellison's eyes searched Blair's face, seeing everything. "Are you afraid of me?" he demanded.

Blair shook his head. "No," he lied.

Ellison's smile was predatory. "No? Then why are you sweating? Why did your heart rate just shoot up?"

Blair's fear vanished beneath sudden excitement. "The lights over here are bright, so I can buy you can see me sweating. How do you know my heart rate?"

"Maybe I can hear it. Or maybe I'm full of shit and baiting you."

"_Do_ you hear my heartbeat?"

Ellison shook his head. "That's impossible, isn't it?"

It wasn't quite a denial. Blair smiled to himself. "No, I don't believe it is." He stepped a little closer to the glass screen. "I wanted to speak with you because I think I can help you."

Ellison laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "_You're_ going to help _me_? Got a gun under that expensive suit?"

"I think you'd notice if I did."

"A file, then? How about a key?"

"No."

"Then I guess you can't help me." Ellison turned away, walking toward the far wall.

Speaking Quechua, Blair said quietly, "Freedom is in the heart, not in the skies."

Ellison whirled around, staring at Blair. "I have no heart," he answered in the same language.

Blair understood but it was testing the limits of his Quechua. He wasn't exactly fluent. The language of the Chopec, the tribe Ellison joined so many years before, gave them a common ground that Blair hoped he could build on, but it wasn't much. He answered in English. "Yes, you do."

"Why do you want to help me?"

He had asked _why_ not _how_. That was interesting. Blair answered as honestly as he dared. "Because you are suffering, and you don't need to be."

Ellison's eyes narrowed. "You have no idea what suffering is."

He was probably right. Blair nodded, acknowledging the point. "Half of the world believes you're a sociopath. And you played the part for them ten years ago. You played it perfectly, but your conscience was killing you the whole time. The other half of the world, the ones who think they understand these things, figure you're schizophrenic. The psychiatrists here say you complain of hearing things, of strange tastes and smells. Classic schizophrenia. So they dope you up to keep you placid. None of them believe you. You can't talk to anyone, or trust anyone because they all think you're insane. That's what I call suffering."

Ellison looked at him silently. Then he said something quietly. Blair recognised the words as Quechua but didn't understand them.

Blair answered in the same language. "A sentinel is a protector. A protector can also be a predator." In English he added, "My Quechua is a little rusty, I'm afraid."

"What makes you think I'm not insane? You know what I did."

Blair shrugged. "I don't know if you're sane or not. But I know you're a sentinel, and that they've mistaken that for schizophrenia. And I know I can help you with that." He took another step toward Ellison. "Look, James...can I call you James?"

"Call me whatever the fuck you like. Everyone else does."

"Without your consent, no doubt. _May_ I call you James?"

"Jim. My name is Jim."

Blair took a deep breath. A real connection. He thought it would take much longer than this. "Jim," he repeated. "I'm going to be honest with you. I had to pull a lot of strings to see you today. I want to help you, but it won't happen unless you ask for me to be here. That's your right, your power."

"No one can help me." Ellison started pacing again. "They should have just killed me. I can't...can't take it here. There are voices everywhere...screaming all night...is it day now? I've tried to tell them, but they just fill me with drugs! So I say the things they want to hear, I tell them it's quiet, but it's not quiet!" He raised his hands to his head, as if trying to block out a sound only he could hear.

"Jim, I know! They think you're hallucinating because they can't imagine you might really hear things they can't, or see things beyond their sight. _I know you can_. You have a gift, and they've turned it into your curse. But, Jim, you can learn to control it, instead of letting it control you. Let me help you."

Ellison walked toward the screen and placed his hand on the mesh, palm flat on the metal. His eyes were full of confusion. "Did the Chopec do this to me?"

Blair felt nothing but compassion for him now. "Indirectly, I think they did. I've studied sentinels in pre-civilised cultures. People born with massively heightened senses, they can hear better, see better, smell...everything is much stronger than normal human senses. In tribal cultures the sentinels are the protectors of their people. But I've never found a real sentinel in a modern society. There are hundreds of examples of people with one or two heightened senses, but never all five. Except_you_, Jim. I believe that growing up in an urban environment makes children born with this gift suppress it. They grow up normal, as you did. But your experience in the jungle brought your sentinel gift out of latency...and you've never been able to turn it off again."

"And you can help me do that?"

"I doubt it can be turned off. But if you let me work with you, I can help you control it. You can learn to hear what you want to, instead of everything around you. So you can taste things normally, and the lights won't hurt you. Maybe you can learn to turn it all down...I don't know." He moved to the screen and looked up into Ellison's eyes. "Do you want to try?" Blair lifted a hand and laid it on the screen next to Ellison's palm. It was as close as he could get to touching him. He saw tears in Ellison's eyes.

"Yes. I want to try."

***

It was worth being soaked to the skin when Matt met him at the door with a mug of hot chocolate and a big towel. Blair hung up his coat, accepted the towel and leaned forward to kiss his lover.

"Man, I could get used to this," he grinned.

"I thought you already had." Matt's dark eyes twinkled as he returned Blair's grin. He handed the mug of chocolate to Blair and their hands touched briefly. "Your hands are freezing!"

"So is the rest of me." Blair towelled his hair with his free hand. "I haven't seen so much rain since we got caught in that monsoon in India." He looked at Matt.

Matt met his eyes, his expression suddenly serious. "Stephen called earlier; he's going to phone back after nine. How did it go?" He was trying to hide his feelings but Blair knew him too well. He heard the hostility Matt was trying so hard to conceal.

Blair shrugged. "Stockwell hates my guts. But that's not surprising."

"And Ellison?" Matt pressed.

Blair sighed, knowing his answer wouldn't be what Matt wanted to hear. "I'm sure he's a sentinel, Matt. The odd thing is he knows it."

"That's odd?"

"He seems to understand what he is, but he's never tried to tell anyone. He's complained about hearing things, weird smells, but he's never explained his senses are enhanced."

"He probably doesn't think anyone would believe him. He was on death row before your book was published wasn't he? He wouldn't know about your research."

Of course he was. Blair nodded. "You're right." He tossed the towel over his shoulder. "I want to drink this while it's hot, and I need some dry clothes. Then I'll tell you everything."

Matt smiled. "I left your sweats out on our bed."

Matt was being unusually domestic, but Blair thought he understood why. He leaned in and kissed him again. "I love you."

Later, they curled up together on the couch. The television was on - one of the music channels Matt liked - but the sound was low. Blair lay in the warmth of his partner's arms and told him everything about his visit to the asylum.

"Are you going back?" Matt asked him, when Blair finished.

Blair nodded. "I hope so." He turned to look at Matt and reached out, smoothing Matt's frown away with his fingers. "I thought seeing him again would bring it all back, you know. Tania's death and everything. But when I got there...all I could see is a man who is suffering."

"He deserves to suffer," Matt said harshly.

"Not like this." Blair looked earnestly into Matt's eyes. "He's a sentinel, Matt, but he has no control of the gift and he can't turn it off. They've got him in a padded cell, solitary. Minimum sensory stimulation and it's still too much for him. It's torture, man. No other word for it. And he's been living like that _for ten years_."

"You feel sorry for him. God, Blair...He murdered Tania!"

"I know. Baby, you know how I felt about it at the time." He kissed Matt gently, his lips, both eyes. "It's strange. I feel like we have...some sort of connection. Maybe through the Chopec..."

"Whoa!" Matt's hand on Blair's shoulder tightened, pushing him away. "I don't want you going there, ever. Blair, sentinel or not, Ellison is a _serial killer_. Don't ever forget that."

_"Are you afraid of me?" Ellison demanded._

_Blair shook his head. "No," he lied._

_Ellison's smile was predatory. "No? Then why are you sweating? Why did your heart rate just shoot up?"_

"I won't forget it," Blair promised.

***

Jim crouched in a corner of his cell. He covered his ears with his hands, but it didn't help. It never helped. There was just too much sound. A television down the hall. Someone in a nearby cell constantly talking to himself. Water: the constant rain on the roof. Rats in the spaces between the walls. A telephone ringing. Someone screaming, far away. Sometimes he could separate the sounds. Mostly it was just a din that never, ever stopped.

No wonder he was crazy.

He heard someone unlocking his door and stood up. He waited for the door to open. It was Craig. That was good. Some of the orderlies were real bastards, but Craig was a decent sort.

"How are you feeling, James?" Craig asked him, speaking quietly.

See? Decent. He knew Jim couldn't bear raised voices.

"Fine," Jim answered. It was polite ritual: he was always _fine_. The truth didn't matter. "You?"

"I'm good. Thanks for asking." Craig leaned down to the food slot in the screen. "Here's your medication."

Jim waited until Craig moved clear of the mesh. He had no idea what they were feeding him. They told him it was just a sedative, and it certainly did help him to sleep, but they could be drugging him with anything. He had no way to know, and no way to refuse. He looked down at the pills beside the plastic cup of water. Maybe if this Sandburg guy was for real he would be able to do something about this. Until then...he downed the pills and chased them with water. "Thanks," he said to Craig. Ritual again.

"Did you enjoy your visitor today?"

"He was interesting," Jim answered evasively. "Craig, I want to talk to my doctor tomorrow. Will you ask for me, please?"

Craig nodded. "I'll put in the request for you, no problem. But Doctor McLennan is on vacation, you might have to see someone else."

Damn. "Maybe I should go straight to the top."

"I'll ask Doctor Stockwell to visit you if you promise you'll be on your best behaviour. You scared the crap out of her last time."

"I did?" Jim frowned. When had he last seen Stockwell? "I...I don't remember."

"No, you never do after those episodes. I'll ask her for you." He retrieved the plastic cup and went to the door. "Sleep well, James."

"Never do." Jim turned away.


	2. Chapter 2

#### September 2006 (Eighteen Months Earlier)

Blair gathered up his notes and looked around the packed lecture hall. "Are there any more questions?" he asked, hoping there were not. He was overrunning his time, which was _great_ because it meant his paper was being well-received, but he could see Professor Harville tapping his watch.

Blair saw a woman near the back of the hall begin to raise her hand just as Prof. Harville came forward to interrupt. "I'm afraid there's no more time for questions. Professor Sandburg, a fascinating presentation. Thank you."

Blair relaxed. He enjoyed these conferences but always found presenting his own work nerve-wracking. There were still some people who found his theories too "out there" for serious academic study, but today's had been a receptive audience. It probably helped that Rainier was his home turf.

He thanked Professor Harville and escaped the podium with some relief. He avoided returning to his seat, walking instead to the back of the hall, By the time he reached the rear doors, Professor Harville was into the usual announcements. Blair had at least an hour before Jenny's presentation. He didn't want to miss that one: Jenny was a former student of his.

A man rose from his seat in the back row and approached Blair. "Professor, I'm Stephen Ellison. I wonder if we could talk?"

"Uh...sure." He shifted the papers under his arm to shake the man's hand.

"In private," Stephen added.

"What's this about, man?"

"Please. I think you'll be interested in what I have to say."

That sounded vaguely sinister, but Blair nodded. "Okay. My office isn't far."

He saw relief in the man's eyes. "Thank you." Stephen fell into step beside him. "In several of your papers you've implied it isn't possible for a sentinel to exist in modern society," he commented as they walked. "Surely, if it's a genetic condition, it would be present everywhere, regardless of social factors."

"It's probably present, but it's like any talent, man. If you don't use it, it fades. In a pre-civilised culture hyperactive senses provide a significant advantage. In modern, Western society...well, think about it. We live in a world of facts and realities. A child who talks about being able to see or hear things normal people can't would be treated as a liar. If not by parents then by neighbours, teachers, maybe even other kids. I think - and this is just a hypothesis - that the sentinel gift in a city-born child would be repressed in self-defence."

"Makes sense."

"So..." Blair opened the office door, "have a seat and tell me what I can do for you."

Stephen sat in the chair Blair offered. "I've been following your work for some time, Professor. I...I think we can help each other."

"How?"

"Let me ask you one more question first."

Blair nodded.

"Suppose a modern man were to have this sentinel ability. Is it possible the ability would appear to be mental illness?"

It was a question Blair had often considered. "I think it's _possible_," he admitted, dragging a chair from behind his desk to sit down near Stephen. "Heightened senses are occasionally a symptom of mental illness, and if a sentinel were not in control of the gift I can imagine it would be...disturbing. Why?"

Stephen seemed nervous, twisting his hands in his lap. "Professor - "

"Blair."

He smiled tentatively. "Blair. My...my brother has spent the last few years in a mental asylum. They say he's schizophrenic, but...well, I can't deny he has some problems but I do believe they're wrong about the cause. His condition hasn't improved much since he was admitted. If anything, he's worse off now than..." Stephen broke off abruptly. He hesitated for a long moment, then added, "A friend introduced me to your work a couple of years ago, Blair. Since then I've read most of your publications and a lot of your ideas are...things I recognise. I think it's possible my brother has this sentinel ability."

"Wow!" It was like all his birthdays come at once. "If that's true...that could be..." Blair struggled to control his eagerness. He had dreamed of finding a real sentinel for so long, but this man had read his work, so he knew that. He had to go carefully, but, man if this was for real he couldn't afford to let it go! "Okay, man, I want to know everything. What makes you think your brother has this gift?" He reached for a pad and pen.

"I'll tell you anything you want to know," Stephen said, eying the pen in Blair's hand, "but in exchange I want your help."

_And here comes the catch._ "What can I do for you?"

"My brother needs help, Blair. The doctors where he is haven't a clue how to help him. You're not just the only sentinel expert in North America; as far as I can find out you're the only one there _is_. I thought, if you could visit him, maybe..."

"You sound desperate," Blair pointed out gently.

"I _am_ desperate. He's in hell and no one cares. Not even our father. I know he's done some terrible things, but he's my brother. I have to do something."

Blair swallowed. "You understand, there might be nothing I can do? I mean, even if he is a sentinel, man, he might not be sane enough to control it."

Stephen nodded reluctantly. "I understand. I could be wrong about him...maybe it's too late for anyone to help. I just want you to try. Just meet with him and give me your honest opinion."

Blair smiled. "That much I can promise. Okay, I want some background first, but..."

"Just a moment," Stephen interrupted. "You haven't asked, but before we go any further I think I should tell you..." his voice trailed off into silence.

Blair waited. _I was wrong. _This_ is the catch._

"My brother...my brother is James Ellison."

_Oh, my god._ That thud was Blair's jaw hitting the ground. "_The_ James Ellison?" he blurted before he could stop himself. "The serial killer?" Of all the people...why him? Why Ellison?

Stephen winced. "I never get used to hearing that."

Oh, god, that was insensitive. Blair opened his mouth to apologise but Stephen went on:

"Yes, that James Ellison." Something of Blair's feelings must have shown in his face, because Stephen added, "I suppose you think he doesn't deserve help..."

_Well, since you mention it..._ "That's not it." Blair shook his head. "Whatever he's done, he's a human being with human rights." It was a rote response; he'd had this argument with Matt many times. "But...oh, man..." Stephen had read Blair's work but apparently hadn't checked up on Blair himself. "Stephen, I _will_ help you if I can. But there's something you need to know. I knew James Ellison. We met in '98, not long before he was arrested. His...last victim was a friend of mine. Actually she's sort of family."

Stephen hadn't known. He stared at Blair, then dropped his eyes. "I'm sorry. I had no idea."

"It's okay, man, really. I said I'll help. I'm gonna have to talk to Matt first, though."

"Matt?"

"My - er - my life partner. He's Tania Roca's brother."

"Oh."

Blair couldn't tell if Stephen's gulp was oh-my-god-I'm-talking-to-a-queer or a realisation of how close to home this was for Blair. "It'll be fine, Stephen. Let me ask you a couple of questions and then we can set up a meeting some time next week."

***

James Ellison. That brought back some memories. Not all of them good ones.

Blair turned his car into the driveway of the house he shared with Matt. It was a happy home. They bought the house together in April 2000; it was almost like getting married. Six years later they were still happy. They had their disagreements but what couple doesn't? Matt's business was doing well and Blair's career was great.

Matt's car was in the garage. Blair looked at it apprehensively. He could appreciate how difficult it had been for Stephen Ellison to approach him, now he was faced with telling Matt Stephen's story. It would not be an easy conversation. Matt still missed Tania. Every now and again something reminded him of her and he'd say "Tan would have loved this," or, "I wish I could tell Tan about..." At such times Blair had learned to say nothing, because nothing really helped.

He headed inside, calling out, "Matt, I'm home!"

Matt appeared at the top of the stairs. "Hi! How was the conference? Did your presentation wow 'em?" He bounded down the stairs, two at a time.

Blair caught his lover as he reached the bottom. "It went great, man. Really great."

"Congratulations, professor."

Blair pulled Matt close and kissed him, pressing their bodies together. Matt felt warm against him and for a moment Blair thought of nothing else. This - Matt's arms around him, mouth hungry on his own, hips gently rocking into Blair's body - was always worth coming home for. When they eventually broke apart he was smiling.

He couldn't put this off. He tried for humour. "Do you want the good news, the bad news or the I-dunno-if-you'll-love-it-or-hate-it news?"

Matt headed toward the couch, pulling Blair with him. "Sounds ominous. Let's start with the good news."

The couch wasn't in its usual place. In fact, nothing was, Blair realised, looking around the room. Even the pictures had been taken down from the walls. He mentally tabled the obvious questions, concentrating on what he needed to tell Matt. "I got the funding for the international project."

"That's great!"

"The bad news is they didn't like my timetable. So I'm going to have to choose between that and my Paraguay trip."

Matt nodded as he cuddled up against Blair. "I can see that's bad news to you, but...you _are_ going to cancel Paraguay, aren't you?"

"I think so," Blair agreed. It wasn't bad news to Matt: he didn't like Blair going to places where Americans could get kidnapped or shot. The timetable for Blair's international project included regular trips to South America, but not Paraguay. It would be a wrench to give up the trip, but the project - an attempt to bring together sentinel-related research in multiple disciplines and multiple countries - was more important.

Blair looked around, distracted again by the condition of the room. It looked like the Mad Hatter and the Red Queen had come in to rearrange the furniture. He had to ask. "What happened in here, Matt? Did you lose something?"

Matt got a mischievous gleam in his eye. "No. I just rearranged a few things."

"Um...I hate to tell you, darling, but your interior decorating skills suck. You're gonna lose all your gay points."

"It's _supposed_ to look bad," Matt explained patiently.

"O...kay. I know there's a story."

"Your mom called. She's arriving tomorrow instead of next week."

"So you went on a crazed rampage through the living room?"

Matt giggled. "So I thought if I made the room look really, really bad, I won't care so much when she starts moving all the furniture. Look, I even put the mirror in the east. Very bad Feng Shui."

Blair laughed. "You're crazy!" he told Matt affectionately.

"But your kind of crazy." Matt reached up to kiss him again. "So, what's the other news? Small or big?"

Blair smiled. "Big. Potentially huge. Matt, I think I may have found a sentinel."

Matt pulled away from to look up into Blair's face. "Really? That's amazing! Tell me everything."

Blair summarised his meeting with Stephen Ellison, careful not to mention any names. "It sounds as if he had some mental problems anyway, but his hyperactive sensory awareness has made it much worse."

"That must be awful," Matt commented. "Okay, drop the other shoe. I can tell there's something."

"Matt, you know how long I've been looking for a sentinel. It's important to me."

"Of course I know."

"So please believe me, I won't do this if you have a problem with it."

"Why would I - "

Blair stopped him by covering Matt's lush mouth with his fingers. "Matt, this man who might be a sentinel. It's James Ellison."

Matt drew back, his smile vanishing. "That's not funny."

"I'm not joking. Stephen Ellison approached me..."

"You're saying you want to get involved with a serial killer. Who murdered my sister."

"'Get involved?' Man, you've got a way with words."

"Blair."

"Listen, man. According to Stephen his brother is in a bad way. I don't know the truth of it, but I could see Stephen is desperate for help and he thinks I'm the only one who can give it. I couldn't turn him down without a hearing, love. I just couldn't."

"If it were anyone else..."

"I know, I know. Let me meet with him - Stephen, I mean - a few times. There might be nothing to this."

"But if there _is_ something to it, you'll want to visit Ellison in prison. Or wherever he is now."

Blair nodded. "It's what Stephen asked me to do."

Matt looked very uncomfortable. "I just don't know, Blair. I think I need some time to assimilate this."

Time, Blair understood.

The following day, Matt told him he was okay with Blair going ahead. He did ask Blair to discuss it with his parents first and Blair reluctantly agreed to talk with Tony. Tony Roca surprised Blair with his support.

"I see no reason," Tony told him, "to hate Ellison's family. Ellison, I cannot forgive, but his father is a man I do business with. I have not met Stephen Ellison but if he is a good man you should help him if you can."

Blair might have gone ahead over Tony's objections - the only opinion he cared about was Matt's - but it was a relief to know he wouldn't have to. With Tony's blessing, he called Stephen Ellison.

***

#### A Few Days Later, Blair's Office

"...We used to joke about it, pretend he was a superhero." Stephen's smile was nostalgic.

"Kids invent things all the time," Blair suggested carefully.

Stephen shook his head. "Not Jim." He placed his coffee mug on the desk. "Our father was very strict about some things..." The smile was gone. "A damn tyrant, really. Imagination was for girls."

"Sounds like an unhappy childhood."

"It shows in where we both ended up. Jim joined the army. He left the day he graduated from college; didn't even say goodbye. I'm an accountant, which at first sight looks like following dad, but the truth is I knew I had to succeed on his terms to escape from him. We exchange cards at Christmas but that's it. We don't speak."

"When did your brother stop showing signs of unusual senses? Do you remember?"

Stephen nodded. "I can tell you exactly. When Jim was ten, someone close to us was murdered. Jim said he saw the person who did it - a man in the woods. But the distance involved...no one believed it was possible he could have identified the killer. Dad took his belt to Jim for lying to the police. That's the last time Jim ever admitted to seeing or hearing anything unusual."

"Traumatic repression. That makes sense." Blair made a final note on his pad.

"So, what do you think?"

Blair closed the notepad. "I think your description fits my research," he admitted. But then, Stephen had _read_ Blair's papers. He could have targeted his comments, even unconsciously, toward the things that would sound familiar to Blair. "But, there's more, Stephen," Blair added. "What is it about his gift that caused his current condition? If it did." He stood to get more coffee for both of them. "How much do you know about his mental state?"

"Only what his psychiatrist has told me. I do visit Jim, but..." Stephen spread his hands, not finishing the sentence.

Blair understood. "Just tell me what you can," he prompted gently.

"Jim has hallucinations, he complains of loud noises, odd smells. He has occasional seizures. The early diagnosis was petit mal epilepsy but their tests ruled that out. He's had all the usual brain scans and they show nothing that shouldn't be there. He's also violent...but you know that."

_You know that._ Definitely an understatement.

Blair answered carefully, "I know he killed a lot of people, Stephen, but I'm not sure what you mean by violent. Has he hurt people since he was sentenced?"

"I'm told he has occasional violent episodes. To be honest, I haven't asked for details, but yes, he's hurt people. I hope that doesn't scare you off."

"I don't scare that easily," Blair assured him. It did sound intimidating. James Ellison was a serial killer. He was insane and violent. But Blair knew that if he did visit Ellison, it would be under safe conditions.

Stephen sighed heavily. "When he was in prison, before we lost the second appeal, Jim was holding it together. He was...bitter, I think is the word, but he wasn't crazy. I don't know if it was losing the appeal or if something else happened, but...but he..."

"It's okay," Blair said.

"A lot of people thought he was faking it. Because of the timing. I wasn't allowed to see him. It wasn't..."

"Yeah." Blair nodded. "I'm not sure, Stephen. I guess I need to talk to your brother before I can make any judgement about this. _If_ he is a genuine sentinel, and _if_ that's a strong factor in his illness, I think I can help. But I can only help if he's willing to co-operate."

"In other words," Stephen concluded, "you think it's a tall order."

"Could be. Let's take it one step at a time, okay? How do I get in to see your brother?"

At the words, Stephen visibly relaxed. "You need next-of-kin consent, but you've got it. I'll see about arranging it."

***

Seeing James Ellison wasn't as easy for Blair as Stephen expected. While on paper a patient in the asylum where Ellison was held could receive any visitor approved by next-of-kin, the director of the asylum refused Blair's application outright. Ellison's status as a life prisoner was cited and so was his "delicate" mental condition.

It took over a year to build a convincing case for Blair to have access and even then they had to go before a judge for a court order.

While the delays and bureaucracy were frustrating, there was one bright side to it all: it gave Blair time. Time to read _everything_ he could about James Ellison's case. Time to get to know Stephen Ellison. Stephen became a regular guest at his and Matt's home. He became a friend, and as a result Matt seemed to become more comfortable with Blair's  project.

On a rainy day eighteen months almost to the day after Stephen Ellison approached Blair at the anthropology conference, Blair drove out of Cascade to see James  Ellison for the first time since his trial.

Had he known on that day where Ellison would ultimately lead him, Blair might not have been so eager.


	3. Chapter 3

#### April 2008

Jim knew it was Sandburg before the cell door opened.

When Sandburg walked in, Jim observed his appearance with amusement. He remembered saying something to Sandburg about his clothing but hadn't expected him to take it to heart. The sharp suit was gone, traded for jeans, sneakers and a casual shirt. The shirt was open at the neck.

Jim's amusement didn't last.

He was having a bad day and the presence of another person in his cell was overwhelming. He was assaulted by smells; leather, sweat, aftershave, more he couldn't concentrate enough to identify. He backed into the far wall. Distance didn't help. It never did.

Sandburg thanked the orderly - the sound was like thunder - and Jim heard the lock engage again. "Jim?" Sandburg said.

Jim recoiled from the sound, raising his hands to block it out.

"Jim?" This time Sandburg spoke much more quietly.

_I can do this. I can do this..._ With an effort he stood and walked toward the screen. "You came."

Sandburg approached the screen with no sign of fear. "Of course I came." He didn't touch the mesh, but he came very close. "Are you...okay?"

"Fine," Jim answered shortly. Ritual. Never tell them you're not fine. He reached the screen. The smells were so thick it took an effort to breathe. "Your aftershave is terrible."

Sandburg looked confused. "I'm not..." he began and then he looked directly at Jim. "It must be on my clothing. Sorry, man, I didn't think of that."

Jim scowled. "You said you could help me."

"I can and I will. For me to help you, though, you have to trust me, Jim." Sandburg nodded to himself. "I guess that's where we should start: what do _you_ need to convince you that you can trust me?"

Jim turned away abruptly. Part of him wanted to laugh. "I don't trust anyone, Chief. Guess you wasted your time."

"Why do you feel you can't trust anyone?"

Anger always helped. Jim managed to push the assault on his senses into the background and stalked up to the mesh, leaning so close he could feel the radiant heat of Sandburg's body. "You can't trust someone who thinks you're crazy," he hissed.

For some reason, that brought a smile to Sandburg's face. "You're right," he agreed. "I don't think you're crazy, Jim." Sandburg shrugged. "No more than you should be, locked in here, anyway."

_Nice evasion_, Jim thought.

"Okay," Sandburg decided. "Today, let's focus on what your senses are like now. Later we'll need to talk about your time in Peru and about some of your more recent experiences...I guess we need to build some trust here before we get to that."

Jim shrugged. He was never going to trust this man. Not that much. "Okay," he agreed.

"What I need to say up front, Jim, is that you're in control of this. I can guide you, but you have to co-operate. That could mean talking to me about some very personal stuff."

At that, Jim did laugh. "Sandburg, I don't even talk to my shrink."

"If I am going to help you, you _have_ to talk to me," Sandburg insisted. His eyes were determined.

"About what?"

"That's just it, I don't know until we get there. I need to know about the time you spent with the Chopec, but after that...it depends on a lot of things."

Jim looked at him. He saw the small lines around Sandburg's eyes, saw the beat of a pulse at his throat, slow and steady. The blue eyes shone with sincerity. And what did Jim have to lose, really? His sanity?

"What do you get out of this?" he asked.

"Knowledge," Sandburg answered at once. "Look, I won't lie to you about my interests here. I've spent years studying sentinels in tribal cultures and the chance to work closely with one is...cool. As well as important to my work. But I'm not here to exploit you, man. I'll sign an non-disclosure agreement if you want me to. Stephen can arrange it with your attorney."

The offer was unexpected and Jim thought it over. Lawyers and agreements...they were part of a world that had little meaning for him any more. But he remembered reading about himself in the press - tabloid bullshit written by hacks who had no idea who he was or why he made the choices he had. Of course, it was five years since they'd let him see a newspaper.

Jim answered, "I'll take you up on that."

If the offer had been a bluff, it didn't show. Blair just nodded. "No problem. I'll call Stephen as soon as I get home and it'll be done before my next visit."

"Thanks."

"Last time I was here," Blair said, "you told me you have trouble with the sounds here. That it's never quiet."

Jim frowned at the reminder, because it made the static in his head get so much louder. Words had power; didn't this doctor know that? He nodded. "Yeah."

"Is that what gives you the most trouble? Your hearing?"

"The most?" Jim tried to consider the question, but it was hard to think. He put one hand against the mesh screen, pushing hard, feeling the metal cool against his skin. He shook his head finally. "I guess. I don't know."

Now there was pity in Sandburg's eyes. Jim turned away, sitting down with his back to the screen so he wouldn't have to see it.

Was he really so far gone? How would he know?

He heard Sandburg kneel on the other side of the screen. "I think," he said quietly, "we should work on your hearing first. I...do you want to start now, or wait for that non-disclosure agreement?"

"I'll trust you," Jim heard himself say. He leaned his head back against the screen. There was water running somewhere; Niagara Falls in his head.

He heard Sandburg's soft gasp and turned his head enough to see him. Sandburg's eyes were wide and he looked very young, suddenly. It took Jim a moment to remember what he had said.

Why did Jim's trust mean anything to Sandburg? Jim twisted his body so his shoulder rested against the screen and he could look at Sandburg comfortably. He laid a hand on the screen that separated them. "Why do you care what I think?" he asked.

Sandburg said nothing for a long time. Eventually, he met Jim's eyes and answered, "Jim, we don't have to be buddies. We don't even have to like each other, but I do need your trust. If I don't have that, I can't help you...and I want to help you."

"I...I need help," Jim confessed. It was a difficult thing to admit. He had a life once. A home, a job, a woman who loved him...it was like the memory of a dream, faded and unreal. He knew he could never get that back, but he couldn't bear the thought of always living as he was now, locked in a padded cell, jumping at every sound and with only hallucinations for company.

Sandburg offered him hope. It was something that had been missing from Jim's life for a long time. He was afraid to trust it. Afraid to hope too much.

He made that mistake before.

He had no other choice.

"Stephen..." he began. His brother's name felt strange in his mouth. How long since he had spoken it? "Stephen trusts you," Jim managed to say. "That's...enough for now."

He saw a half-smile of understanding cross Sandburg's lips. "Are you ready to try something, then?"

"Maybe. What?"

Sandburg shifted to sit cross-legged on the ground, still near the mesh screen. "This is just a simple exercise to find out about your hearing: what you can hear, how much of it is real and how much control you have. Then I'll start to help you improve that control. Okay?"

Jim nodded, a little nervously now.

"First you have to relax, Jim. That position doesn't look comfortable. Sit with your back to me if you like, or lie down. Whatever feels right."

It sounded a bit hokey, but Jim complied, sitting with his back against the mesh screen and his hands resting on his knees. "Now what?"

"Remember you're in control of this. If it becomes uncomfortable, you can just stop. Remember that. You are in control."

Jim nodded, reflecting that if he _were_ in control he wouldn't be in a rubber room. But the man meant well.

"Close your eyes and listen to my voice..."

***

Doctor David McLennan was in his late thirties but looked younger, a slim man with mousy hair and a friendly, open smile. He wore a white lab-coat over a dark blue suit. He offered Blair his hand - an old-fashioned gesture that said a great deal about him.

Blair shook his hand firmly. "It's good to meet you at last." He was nervous about this meeting. Everyone associated with the asylum seemed to want Blair gone, and he knew they had the final say over Jim's treatment. Even with Stephen's support, Blair could do nothing if Doctor McLennan opposed his presence here.

McLennan's next words reassured him. "I'm impressed, Doctor Sandburg. You seem to have developed more of a rapport with Ellison in two weeks than I've managed in six years." Closing the office door behind them, he motioned to a chair. "Have a seat."

Blair sat. It was a plush green leather armchair that creaked as he sat down. "You were listening?" he asked. The room was office on one side: all books and filing cabinets, with a desk and computer under the window, and old-fashioned reading room on the other, two matching leather chairs, a low table, carpeted and comfortable.

McLennan sat down in the other chair. "Not listening, only watching. We don't monitor audio unless it's vital to the patient's case. I'd love to know how you did it."

"I put him in control," Blair answered.

McLennan smiled. "Ah, I see. Do you think that's wise?"

Blair shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not looking to build a doctor-patient relationship with Ellison. I hoped that if I approached him as an ally, he'd be more receptive."

McLennan looked thoughtful. "What's your impression of Ellison, Doctor Sandburg?"

It felt like a trick question. Blair answered as honestly as he could. "I understand Stephen Ellison's concerns. Jim seems very disturbed, but we had a reasonable conversation. He doesn't appear insane."

"That's what I was afraid you'd say." McLennan stood and walked over to a filing cabinet. There was a jug of water on top of it, with several glasses. "Water, Doctor?"

"Thanks. And it's Blair, please."

"Alright, Blair. Then I'm David." He poured water, then opened the cabinet and extracted a file, carrying both back to the coffee table. "I know Doctor Stockwell tried to keep you out. She regards your work as belonging with alien abductions and Elvis sightings. I'm a little more open minded."

_Only a little?_ Blair wondered. The unlabelled file folder lay on the table between them.

"If you can help my patient, I'm willing to work with you," McLennan went on.

Blair smiled with relief. "That's - "

"_However_," McLennan interrupted, I can't let you put yourself at risk. You need to understand what Ellison is."

Blair took a deep breath. "As his psychiatrist, you must be familiar with Ellison's history. His murders."

"Of course."

"Then bear with me while I tell a story." Blair reached for the glass of water, but didn't drink, not yet. "Ten years ago, when I was a grad student, I met a girl. She was beautiful, smart...just my type. Best of all, when I asked her out she said yes."

"Do you have a point?"

"I'm getting there. On the night we were supposed to have our first date, I went to her apartment to pick her up. I found her dead. Murdered." He closed his eyes. "She was Tania Roca."

"Ellison's last victim," McLennan confirmed.

Blair opened his eyes again, looking across to meet David's gaze. "I am not likely to forget what he is, David. Trust me on that." He took a sip of water.

McLennan shook his head. "You're thinking of what he _was_. Ten years ago...well, I cannot say I think he was sane, given what he did, but whatever his mental illness he hid it well. He functioned in society. He's a very different man today, Blair. Are you familiar with the way people adapt to institutional life?"

"I've read Goffman," Blair nodded. "Take a perfectly sane, well-adjusted man and lock him in an asylum; after a while he will exhibit the same behaviours as the inmates. Human beings absorb and mimic the behaviours that surround them."

"Hmm. The kind of asylums Goffman described don't really exist today, but the core of his thesis remains valid. Ellison has made some progress but he is not a stable man..."

Blair gestured impatiently. "Look, Stockwell's already given me this speech, okay? Craig Boyd tried to scare me, too. I haven't seen - "

"I want you to see something," McLennan interrupted him. He brought the laptop from the desk and placed it on the table. Extracting a disk from the file he slid it into the laptop and pressed a couple of keys. The disk was evidently a video file. As it began to play, McLennan turned the laptop toward Blair.

"When Ellison was first transferred here from prison, he was in something very close to a catatonic state. He had periods of alertness, a day or a few hours. Those periods improved over the first nine months he was here and we were hopeful he would eventually regain the stability he had before he was imprisoned. Then this happened."

Blair watched the film. It showed a hospital room with Ellison sitting on the edge of a bed. He was wearing one of those open-backed hospital gowns. There was a man with him, presumably a doctor, who had his back to the camera.

Blair could see that Ellison was agitated. His hands were never still. His eyes darted around the room as if following something only he could see. There was no sound on the tape and though Ellison's lips moved as if he were speaking, Blair couldn't make out any words.

Without any warning Blair could detect, Ellison lunged for the doctor. They both tumbled to the floor. For a few moments, only Ellison was visible to the camera. Then two other men burst into the room. They tried to grab Ellison and he fought back, sending one of the men flying into the wall. The second man lasted long enough to jab a hypodermic into Ellison's thigh. Ellison grasped the man's wrist and jerked him around. Blair saw the man scream and knew his arm was broken.

McLennan froze the playback. "Diego's arm was broken at the elbow. Doctor Clarke needed surgery; Ellison crushed his windpipe."

Blair stared at the frozen image. He hadn't imagined anything like this.

"These violent episodes are unpredictable. We have no idea what triggers them. When it's over, Ellison has no memory of the event."

Blair's mouth was dry. He drank some water to cover it. "Is it...is he like that every time?"

"More or less, yes. We can minimise the danger with medication. In his current cell Ellison can't harm anyone but himself and he doesn't self harm. As...cruel as it may seem, his living arrangements are the best we can do for him."

A thought occurred to Blair then. "Wait. The cell where I spoke with Ellison - that's his permanent living quarters?"

"Yes."

"How often does he get to leave the cell?" Ellison couldn't be in there 24-7; he would need access to toilet facilities at the very least.

"Twice a day for personal needs," McLennan confirmed. "He doesn't leave for any other purpose. Any visitors he has see him in the cell as you did."

"Including yourself?"

"Yes."

_Shit. _The realisation was one of those struck-by-lightning moments. "How long, David? How long has he been living like that?"

"Five, six years."

"Oh, man. No wonder he's a basket case."

"Doctor Sandburg..." McLennan protested.

Blair knew he'd caused offence but pushed on regardless. "You told me you've read some of my work. Can you accept my word that Ellison is a sentinel?"

"I can accept that it's possible," McLennan hedged.

"In tribal cultures sentinels spend periods of time alone in the wild. The solitude is used to hone their senses, increase the power of their gift. You've got Ellison in a padded cell; the rubber acts like soundproofing and that room is all one colour. It's like he's living in a sensory deprivation chamber."

"That's an exaggeration."

"Not if he's a sentinel. If I'm right, his sensory awareness isn't like anything a normal person would have. If you deprive his senses of stimulation they compensate. In that room, he's got almost no sensory stimulation."

McLennan's eyes widened as the penny finally dropped. "You're saying that if his senses are a factor in his condition, then the cell is making it worse, not better."

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Are you suggesting he should be moved to a different environment? Because the security issue would make that difficult."

Blair considered that. The vid-image was still on the laptop screen in front of him, a vivid reminder that McLennan was justified in being concerned about security. He thought about what it would mean to Jim, too. Finally he shook his head. "He could barely cope with my presence today. A change of environment in his present state might push him back into that catatonic state." On the other hand, he was sure that the cell was doing Jim no good at all. "Doc- David, my role here, if you agree, is to help Ellison learn to control his senses. Maybe when - or if - we succeed a new environment is something you should consider. But not now."

McLennan nodded. "Sensible." He closed the laptop. "Now, tell me what you two talked about today."

"Today, not much. We discussed his senses in general and the problems his hearing is causing specifically. I tried a simple exercise in controlling his hearing. That's it."

"An exercise?"

"Just a basic guided meditation."

McLennan smiled. "And how did that go?"

"It took a long time for him to relax," Blair answered honestly. "He has difficulty concentrating. Can I ask...what medication are you giving him?"

"Anti-psychotics. A sedative at night."

Blair expected that. "Anti-psychotic drugs would affect his memory and concentration."

"Yes."

"Well...would it be possible to cut back on that? The state he's in..."

"Blair, you've given me food for thought. As I said, if you can help Ellison, I'm willing to work with you, but you mustn't lose sight of the fact that he's a dangerous man. His last violent episode was thirteen weeks ago; that's the longest he's ever gone without an incident. I think it would be unwise to meddle with medication that's working."

Blair couldn't argue with that. "I understand." He pondered for a moment. "There must be some compromise..."


	4. Chapter 4

#### June 2008 (Seven Weeks Later)

The house was dark. That was odd; Blair expected Matt to be home.

Blair dug into his pocket for his keys, not unduly worried as it wasn't unusual for Matt to work late. It was his big opening tomorrow night - he was probably still at the gallery stressing over details. Blair shrugged to himself as he opened the door. So much for their romantic evening. He would shower and change, then drive out to the gallery and see if he could drag Matt home. Maybe they could have a romantic dinner; it was too late to make reservations anywhere but if they went to one of Tony Roca's restaurants they were guaranteed a table.

He tossed his keys onto the hall table and checked the neatly-stacked mail. There was an electric bill, a letter from his publisher and several birthday cards. He smiled, recognising Naomi's handwriting on one envelope. With the mail in his hand he headed into the living room.

"_Surprise!_"

Blair jumped almost out of his skin as the room flooded with light. Suddenly he was surrounded by people: Naomi, Matt, Tony and Lien...friends, family. He opened his arms to Naomi as she reached him, laughing. When had Matt found time to plan this? He met his lover's eyes over Naomi's shoulder.

"Happy Birthday," Matt grinned.

"I love you," Blair said, speaking to both of them. He kissed Naomi, then held out his hand to Matt and kissed him, too. With one of them on each side of him, Blair turned to face his gathered friends. "I can't believe you did all this without telling me!" he laughed, then, to Matt with mock-anger: "And as for you..."

"Payback," Matt smirked.

"I'll get you later."

"I hope so!"

Perhaps their romantic evening wasn't dead after all.

Blair opened gifts, thanked friends and drank beer. All the things you do at a party. He managed to talk to everyone who was there and by midnight most of their guests had drifted away.

Matt slid his arms around Blair's waist from behind, resting his chin on Blair's shoulder. "Coming to bed?" he asked, one hand roaming down the front of Blair's pants.

"We're not alone," Blair answered.

"It's only Naomi. She won't mind."

Blair leaned back into his partner's warmth. "You'll kill me if I say I'm too tired, won't you?"

"I won't kill you, baby. I might tie you down..."

It was then that Naomi appeared in the doorway. "You'd better do what he wants, sweetie." She beamed at them both. "Don't worry, I won't hear a thing."

Blair returned his mother's smile then looked at Matt. "Well...it _is_ my birthday..."

***

Matt's golden skin shone with silver drops of water from his shower. Blair looked up from the bed and paused, admiring the view. After ten years together Matt's body held no secrets from him; neither did Matt's ways. Blair knew that when he walked out of the bathroom dripping wet it was very deliberate. Matt knew the effect he had on Blair. Blair stood, moving his eyes from Matt's feet slowly up his body to the seductive smile, making sure Matt knew he appreciated what he was seeing.

As Matt reached him, Blair dropped to his knees and kissed Matt's stomach, tasting a faint residue of soap. He circled the damp navel with his tongue and heard Matt sigh. He loved that sound. He began to run a hand slowly up Matt's leg.

Matt groaned. "Oh, no teasing, _caro_, no teasing tonight," he begged.

Blair looked up, rubbing his cheek against Matt's thigh. "No teasing? What do you want?"

Matt reached down, urging Blair to stand. "You. Right now."

The urgency was mutual. He took Matt's hands in his, pulling him toward the bed. "I'm all yours, lover."

***

#### Morning

"Just until twelve." Blair poured them both a second cup of coffee.

Matt smiled, reaching for another piece of toast. "That's great. You can meet me for lunch and then this afternoon you can help me - "

"Matt. It's Friday."

"I know, but..."

Blair looked at him, waiting.

When Matt realised what Blair meant, he looked up sharply. "Oh, shit, you're not going out there today?"

"You know I do this every Friday," Blair pointed out reasonably.

Matt's frown deepened. "Tell me you're not blowing me off for that fucking murderer!"

Blair took a deep breath, determined not to get angry. "I'm not blowing you off, Matt. I'll be at the opening, man, I just can't make it this afternoon. The opening isn't until seven."

"Shit, Blair."

"You're the one who picked the date, man. You _know_ I have a standing appointment."

"You can give it a miss just this once," Matt insisted stubbornly.

Blair dragged his chair around the breakfast bar to sit closer to Matt. He shook his head. "I didn't know you expected me to help this afternoon. If you'd asked earlier, maybe I could have re-arranged things, but, Matt, try to understand. Ellison is...volatile. If I change the routine I have to explain why. I can't just not show up."

"I don't give a damn."

Blair struggled to keep his temper. After a moment he stood and opened his arms to Matt. Matt hesitated for a long time, then went to him. Blair hugged Matt close. "This isn't about your opening," he said. "It's about Ellison."

"I hate it," Matt confessed, his mouth against Blair's neck. "I hate thinking of you with him."

Blair drew back, keeping his hands on Matt's arms. "I love you," he said firmly. "Mateo Roca, you are more important to me than anyone or anything, you understand? If you ask me to stop visiting Ellison, then I'll stop. But I made a commitment. I know you think Ellison doesn't deserve the courtesy, and maybe you're right, but David McLennan and Stephen Ellison _do_ deserve it. They're the ones who'll have to deal with the fallout if I screw them."

Matt looked unhappy. "I can't ask you to give up your sentinel research." He straightened Blair's collar absently. "And I know Ellison is important to your work. I just...I hate this!"

"Yes, he's important. And you're totally stressed over the gallery opening tonight and _I_ know how important _that_ is to _you_." Blair kissed him. "So let's not fight over this, okay? Let's just get through today and tomorrow we'll talk it over without the stress."

Matt sighed. "Okay. Tomorrow." He kissed the tip of Blair's nose and straightened his glasses. "You _will_ make it to the gallery."

"I wouldn't miss it," Blair promised. "I'll be there by six at the latest. My tux is ready upstairs..."

"I'll take the tux to the gallery for you. You can change there."

"That sounds...distracting," Blair smiled.

"You wish!"

"Yeah, I do."

***

At the asylum gate, Blair rolled down the car window and grinned up at the guard. "Hi, Lee. How's your wife? Did she have the baby yet?"

Lee smiled back happily. "Tuesday. A girl. Called her Anita."

"Congratulations, man! That's great!" A baby girl was something he would never have...it was a small regret, but he wouldn't trade the past ten years with Matt. Lee waved him on without asking for ID, and Blair restarted the car.

As he drove through the gate, Blair realised that his regular visits here were about more than just Jim Ellison. Over the past weeks, he'd made friends here: Lee who manned the gate, Glen who sat on the main reception desk, Craig and Sean who worked on Jim's ward. They were people he looked forward to seeing every week. He would miss them if he didn't come out here any more.

On the other hand, he understood Matt's problem with his work. If Matt asked him to stop coming, he would. In some ways it would be a relief if Matt made that decision for him. Some days Blair could talk with Jim and see only a man who needed help. But there were other days, too. They were the days when he could barely see Jim at all for the memory of Tania's body on her white couch, or the days when he remembered Detective Ellison coolly interviewing him after Blair discovered her body...a body_he_ put there.

Blair didn't know how to get past that.

The third time he visited Jim, Blair mentioned something about his time with Cascade PD. Jim shut the subject down quickly. Blair didn't need to be told that the murders Ellison committed were a similarly taboo subject. It was fine by him; his interest in Jim was as a sentinel, not as a killer. So instead it was this huge elephant in the room. Blair never mentioned Tania, or even Matt, by name. And Jim...well, Jim never volunteered anything.

"Hey, doc." Craig looked up from his newspaper. "How you doin'?"

"I'm good, man. How are you? I heard the Jags won again?"

Craig laughed. "Yeah. One more win and Sean owes me a cool three hundred."

"Not bad," Blair returned. "How is he?"

"Take a look, doc."

He looked up at the monitors. It was easy enough to single out Ellison's cell. Jim was sitting with his back to the camera in what looked like a lotus position. He wasn't moving.

"He's been like that for four hours. Hasn't moved as far as I can tell. Didn't touch his lunch."

"Have you informed Doctor McLennan?" Blair asked.

"Yeah, but there's not much to do about this." Craig shrugged. "It's an improvement on his usual episodes, but...well, I've been doing this job long enough to know change isn't always good."

"You're worried."

"A little."

Blair nodded. "Better let me in there," he suggested.

"Sure." Craig hauled himself out of his chair and picked up his key card. They started walking. "I don't know if you'll get anywhere today, doc, but if you do, let him know he missed a meal. If he's hungry I can call down to the kitchen for him."

"Thanks, I'll let him know." Blair watched Craig swipe the card, opening the cell door. He went in. Blair thought he understood why Jim was like this, but he wouldn't make assumptions. He waited, as he always did, until the door was closed and locked behind him.

He approached the screen. "Jim? Can you hear me?"

Jim turned to face Blair, and he was smiling. "I heard you at the gate. I did it, Chief. I did it." He stood slowly and came toward the screen.

Blair had a hundred questions. "How long have you been sitting like that?"

Jim shrugged. "They don't let me have a watch."

Oh. Yeah, there was that. "Okay, man, but it's important. Can you guess how long?"

Jim frowned, considering. "I...my sense of time is screwed. I heard Craig tell you it was four hours."

"It didn't feel that long to you, huh?"

"No."

Blair sat down on the floor, as had become his custom. "Tell me everything you remember."

Jim sat down. "I was trying to isolate the sounds the way you taught me. At first it was no different. I couldn't concentrate enough to isolate anything. Then I remembered you saying I could try to listen for something familiar. So I tried to find voices I recognised."

"And that worked?"

Jim smiled eagerly. The expression completely transformed him. "It worked. It was amazing, Blair! I could cut through everything, all the static, and I could hear what I wanted. It was so clear!"

"That's great! Well done, man!"

"I knew you were coming, so I thought, maybe if I can do this, I can take the next step. So I tried listening for you. I heard you at the gate, asking someone called Lee about his wife and baby."

Blair felt his jaw drop. Even knowing what Jim could do - or should be able to do - to have the evidence shoved in his face like this was stunning. For several seconds, he couldn't speak. Blair cleared his throat and asked, "Uh...how do you know I was at the gate?"

"The fence is electrified. I could hear it humming. And your car."

"That's awesome! Man...I thought it would take months, maybe years before you'd get that kind of control."

Jim's smile faded. He was silent.

Blair waited.

Finally, Jim said, "I think...I could do it once. This isn't new to me."

Eureka! That was it. Blair had been waiting for weeks for this moment: for the moment when Jim would share something voluntarily, without Blair dragging every scrap of information out of him. At last, they were there.

"When could you do it before?" Blair asked him. "Do you know?"

***

Do you know? It was such an innocent question.

Such a terrifying question.

If he was willing to trust Sandburg the way Sandburg wanted him to, Jim knew it started here. Answer? Or not. Not was easy. Evade, act confused; Sandburg would swallow the act. To answer truthfully was to open a door better left closed. A door he closed and locked a long time ago.

***

_The waters of the lake reflected the green of the jungle and the blue of the sky above. Enqueri stood at the waters' edge, balancing on the branch of a fallen tree. Behind him, the thick heat of jungle air clung to him, embracing him. The air above the water was fresher, so Enqueri stood exactly on the meridian between heat and blessed cool._

_He raised his eyes to the sky. The roiling clouds in the distance signalled a change in the weather. But that was elementary and Enqueri knew the shaman at his side observed the same clouds without his prompting. It gave them a deadline, because they must be back before the storm hit, but the weather was not the reason they stood there._

_Enqueri extended his senses across the lake, seeking the small details that would reveal the presence of other humans. It was likely the men he sought were long gone, but even if they were, they left a trail. In this jungle, it was impossible to avoid leaving a trail. And any trail, he could follow._

_The search took time. Twice Incacha touched his shoulder gently, bringing him back before he could lose himself. Then he found it. The distinctive smell of helicopotor fuel told him that perhaps there was no trail to follow after all. Enqueri turned to Incacha and..._

***

_...and grabbed the strap above his head quickly as the huey rocked dangerously. "Hang on!" he shouted unnecessarily. The stink of fuel leaking from their pierced tank filled the air as the huey plunged down. Jim could do nothing but hang on._

_Then there was nothing but noise and stink and pain as the helicoptor's blades were torn away and glass broke and metal bucked and screeched and men died all around him. The impact tore the strap from his hand and Jim felt himself flying. He met the earth with a bone-crushing impact, and struggled to take a breath. Loam and greenery filled his mouth. He choked, spat and slowly lifted his head to see..._

***

_...crusted blood and dirt caking his arm as he wiped the sweat from his brow. Jim gathered the last of the earth on his makeshift shovel and added it to the mound. His knees buckled and he sank to his knees beside the grave. The shovel fell from his hand and he pitched forward, resting his forehead on the soft earth._

_Jim groped in his pocket and found Blackie's dog tags. He raised his head and straightened, reaching out to hook the broken chain over the hand-made cross at the head of the grave. He said no prayer for Blackie or any of the others. There was no prayer in him._

_Still on his knees, Jim stared across his graveyard. Seven neat mounds of earth. His men. His friends._

_Suddenly the rifle was in his hand and he was flat to the ground, aiming at..._

***

_...at the kindly smile Incacha directed at him. _

_Enqueri took the offered water, drinking thirstily. The cool liquid was reviving and a few moments later he was able to speak. "You tell me that was...real?" he asked, still struggling a little with the unfamiliar language._

_"It is always real," Incacha told him. "You will be..." and then a word Enqueri had never heard before and couldn't translate._

_He didn't need the translation, though. Enqueri-who-was-once-Jim gestured firmly: no. "First," he insisted, choosing his words carefully, "I want the rebels who killed my men."_

_"There is a price for vengeance," Incacha warned him._

_"This isn't vengeance," Enqueri said, then in his own tongue, "It's my job." He passed the empty bowl back to the shaman. "Will you..."_

***

_..."Help me! Oh, god, Captain, you've gotta do something!" _

_Blackie's screams were weaker now. Jim knelt beside him, a curled leaf in his hand serving as a cup. He held the younger man's head gently and helped him to drink. Blackie - Lieutenant Blackwell - wasn't going to make it. There was a piece of shrapnel as long as Jim's forearm embedded in his abdomen. Jim had done everything he could but he knew that removing the shrapnel would kill Blackie as surely as leaving it. He needed a hospital and surgery._

_Jim looked despairingly at what was left of their huey. No help there. Most of the supplies, medical and otherwise, burned up in the crash. The huey's radio was dead. Jim had no way to call for help and theirs was a covert mission; it would be a week at least before the Colonel wondered why they hadn't made contact. By then it would be too late for Blackie._

_When Blackie died, Jim would be alone._

_"Captain..." Blackie moaned again._

_Jim had nothing. No disinfectant. No morphine. Not even aspirin, for all the good that would do. Coca grew wild in the jungle and might have helped but try as he might Jim couldn't remember what coca leaves looked like. Perhaps he'd never known._

_He weighed the gun in his hand. In battle you have to triage. Had he any hope of quick rescue, Jim wouldn't consider it, but there was no such hope. Blackie's skin was hot beneath his hand._

_It would be mercy...wouldn't it?_

_Before he could change his mind, Jim put the gun to Blackie's temple and pulled the trigger. _

_Blood sprayed his clothing, blood and more. Fragments of bone cut into his skin. He forced himself to look._

_It was mercy..._

***

Jim met Sandburg's earnest eyes. "A long time ago, in Peru," he answered. "I learned a lot in Peru."


	5. Chapter 5

#### August 2008

Doctor McLennan shook his head emphatically. "Blair, multiple personality disorder is extremely rare, and Ellison..."

"No, man," Blair interrupted quickly. Damn it, David wasn't _listening_ to him! "That's not what I'm talking about. Look, we all have multiple personalities. You show different faces to your wife, to your kids, at work, talking to your bank manager. All different, right?"

"True," David answered carefully. He didn't meet Blair's eyes.

"Your core personality is a constant, but you pick and choose which parts are useful in any given circumstances." David didn't disagree  so Blair pushed onward. "Jim went through a real trauma when he crashed in the jungle. He was the sole survivor of his unit, stranded alone. Back then his self-image, the core of who he was, came from his military identity; in the jungle, that was meaningless."

David was suddenly paying attention. "Ellison told you that?"

Blair nodded. "Not in so many words, but it's kind of obvious from the way he talks about it. What I'm getting at is when the Chopec found him, Jim constructed a whole new personality for himself. They even gave him a new name. It was consciously done, not the shattering of personality you see in psychotic cases."

"So when he was rescued..."

"This part is guesswork. But Jim talks about Enqueri in the third person most of the time. He almost never says _I _or _me_. I think Enqueri was his way of surviving the trauma: the crash, the loss and pain happened to Captain Ellison, not to Jim's new self. The arrival of the rescue team forced him to be 'Ellison' again. It messed up the equilibrium he'd found. The records show he had some sort of breakdown."

"You amaze me, Blair." David smiled suddenly. "Yes, it's possible. Very possible." He leaned forward and turned the recorder off. "Your help has been invaluable these past weeks, Blair. Ellison's progress speaks for itself."

Blair rose from the leather chair, walking over to the bookshelves. He glanced idly at the titles as he spoke. "He's doing well, David. But _I'm_ not. I can't keep this up, man. The stress is killing me. More important, it's killing my elationship."

"I understand. Given the difficulty I'm surprised you've stayed with it this long."

Blair shrugged. "I was going to quit sooner, but Matt took his annual buying trip without me so I had more time to think it through. I usually go with him but this year we both agreed we needed some time apart. We thought it would help."

"Has it?"

Blair groaned. "What I've learned from Jim since April has advanced my work by years. What I might learn by sticking it out a few more months...man, it's hard to give that up." He sighed. "And it's not just my work. I kinda like the guy, you know?" He shook his head, unable to smile at that irony. "But I _love_ Matt. He drives me crazy sometimes but I love him."

"I know you do."

"He wanted Ellison _dead_. I mean, the jury sentenced him to death and Matt thought that was right. I don't believe in the death penalty, not under any circumstances. We used to debate it, but for Matt it always came down to Tania. He'd say the man who murdered her had no right to life."

"That's only natural. It's personal to him."

"It was personal to me, too!" Blair protested. "It still is."

"_Was_," David repeated. "You used the past tense, Blair. Your sentinel project is your life's work. You can't get more personal than that. In comparison, the life of a woman you barely knew..."

"Don't talk about her like that!" Blair rounded on David angrily.

David spread his hands. "I'm sorry. It's an occupational hazard."

"Shit." Blair covered his eyes with his hands. "I need to get my priorities straight, man. My work is important, but in the end it's an academic interest. Matt is a_person_. That's got to be more important."

"James Ellison is a person, too," David pointed out gently.

Blair sighed. "Yeah, that makes it hard. But this is the right decision." The truth was Blair didn't want to stop visiting Jim. He looked forward to these visits every week. But he knew his desire was self-serving and it made him feel selfish. Relationships are about compromise, but there was no compromise on this issue between him and Matt. He had to stop...or be prepared for the consequences.

***

Blair could see the message light on the answering machine blinking as he opened the front door. He hung his coat in the closet and punched the button. The first message was a hang-up. The second was Matt:

"_Hi, babe. My flight gets in at one-twenty Sunday. Gonna meet me at baggage claim? I found the most brilliant artist. I can't wait to show you some of her work. Can't wait to see you, babe. Hotel beds are cold without you. E-mail me if you can't meet me, otherwise I'll expect to see you at the airport in two days. Love you. Kiss!_"

Blair smiled. _Love you, too,_ he answered silently. He sifted through the mail, then headed into the kitchen. He made herbal tea and began gathering ingredients for a meal.

Herbal tea reminded him of the day he ran into Ellison in Memorial Park. That was the day he began to suspect Ellison might be a sentinel. It was also, Blair thought, the same day Ellison was arrested for Tania's murder. The two events were inextricably linked in his memory.

Matt, having been raised by a gourmet chef, was fussy about food. Blair always preferred to cook for himself - a hot dog on the street was good enough to stop the stomach growling but a meal should be a pleasure, even if eating alone. He chopped vegetables ready to braise, added some fresh herbs. He'd left some dough in the breadmaker at breakfast; he turned on the oven to bake it.

He was just taking the bread out of the oven when the phone rang. Blair turned down the heat under the vegetables and reached for the phone. Matt was being impatient; he usually waited for Blair to call him back. "Blair Sandburg."

"Hello, Doctor Sandburg. My name is Special Agent Clay Shelton. I'm calling from the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

_Holy shit!_ Was this some kind of practical joke? Blair gulped. "Uh...FBI? What's going on?" Had something happened to Matt? Or Naomi?

"Doctor, I'm going to be in Cascade tomorrow for some routine matters and I'd like to meet with you if it's convenient. Just informally. Perhaps you'd meet me for lunch?"

Blair found he was shaking his head. This made no sense at all. "I guess I'm available," he admitted, "but why is the FBI interested in me?" He was wondering if he needed to call a lawyer.

"You've been meeting with James Ellison," Agent Shelton told him.

Light dawned, and Blair discovered he could breathe again. "Oh. Yeah, I have, but I can't talk about that."

"I'm aware of your non-disclosure agreement, Doctor. I don't want to interrogate you, just ask for your help. If you can't help me, or if you don't like what I have to say, we won't trouble you again. What do you say?"

"I don't think I can help you, Agent Shelton, but I'll meet with you if you'd like."

"Good. Is there a restaurant you'd recommend?"

Blair was tempted to name somewhere expensive but he resisted the temptation. "There's a jazz club on the corner of Bay that has a good lunch menu. Giovanni's." Giovanni's was near Matt's art gallery; they often ate there.

"I'll make reservations for one-thirty. I look forward to meeting you, Doctor Sandburg."

As soon as Shelton hung up, Blair called information for the number of Cascade's FBI field office. The call had to be a practical joke - he didn't know much about the FBI, but a phone call out of the blue offering _lunch_ seemed, well, not their style. So Blair was surprised when the office confirmed that Supervisory Special Agent Shelton of the NCAVC was indeed visiting Cascade the following day and suggested he could call at the office if he wanted to meet Agent Shelton prior to their appointment. Blair thanked her but declined the offer.

It was ten years since Jim Ellison was jailed for murder. Why was the FBI interested in him now?

***

Jim finished his soup and laid the plastic bowl down beside the food slot. He moved into the middle of his padded floor and sat down in what he'd come to think of as his meditative posture: legs crossed "Indian-style" and his hands resting on his knees. Meditation. When he led a real life he might have laughed at the suggestion. Not much to do in here except get bored, though, and the exercises Sandburg taught him helped him to keep control of his senses. It wasn't meditation he had in mind that evening, though. Just thought. He needed to think.

Sandburg was going to stop visiting him. Jim heard every word of their conversation: Sandburg explaining to McLennan that he couldn't continue because of someone called Matt. Matt had to be Matt Roca...could they still be together? Jim's mind was so much clearer since Sandburg started visiting. He could feel the difference. His memory was better, too.

He remembered Sandburg. Jim always knew they'd met before; he had a very clear picture of a younger Blair Sandburg in his mind. But he didn't know who Sandburg_ was_. Now he remembered. He was the student who found Tania Roca's body. Jim remembered watching him at her funeral and thinking later that despite his alibi, Sandburg was his best choice as a suspect. He remembered watching weeks later, Sandburg and her brother screwing each other's brains out. He remembered getting hard as he watched.

He remembered Sandburg saying, _I kinda like the guy..._

***

Giovanni's was an Italian restaurant with a very modern look. The area near the bar was well lit. The steel-and-glass tables where customers ate were lit with subtle, blue light and a white globe was adjustable for romantic lighting or bright, as the customer preferred. In the evenings and occasionally during the day they had live music on stage; when there was no live band recorded jazz piped softly from the speakers.

Special Agent Clay Shelton looked like every FBI cliché Blair ever heard. His suit was charcoal grey, his hair a few shades lighter, salt-and-pepper streaked. He was about 6'2", broad-shouldered, clean shaven and fit. Blair saw no sign of a gun but he knew it had to be there. Shelton was waiting at the bar when Blair arrived.

He stood, revealing a glass of water on the bar. "Doctor Sandburg, thank you for coming. I'm Clay Shelton." He showed his FBI credentials discreetly.

"Call me Blair." He accepted Shelton's offer of a drink, asking for a beer, and a waitress showed them to a table. Blair ordered without looking at a menu - he knew it by heart - and Shelton accepted his recommendation. The waitress left them alone. The restaurant wasn't busy and the piped jazz in the background helped to keep conversation private.

As soon as they were alone, Blair spoke up. He wanted to make his position clear from the outset. If Shelton wanted information about Jim, Blair couldn't provide it. "I don't know what resources you have, but if you know about the NDA I signed, I don't see what else I can tell you."

Shelton nodded. "Let me explain how I hope you can help me. Then we'll discuss it."

"Okay."

"I'm one of two supervisory special agents at the NCAVC profiling centre, Quantico. Are you familiar with our work?"

"A little. Profiling is based on statistical similarities in crimes, motive, M.O., signature and so on."

"Exactly. The program began in the 1980s as a series of interviews with convicted serial killers, from which we developed our profiling methods. What you might not know is this is an ongoing program. We send agents to interview as many convicted offenders as possible, principally serial killers and violent sex offenders. These interviews are voluntary and completely confidential. Most subjects co-operate; they like to talk about themselves."

The point of this meeting was becoming clear to Blair. "Let me guess: Jim Ellison refused to co-operate."

"Good guess." Shelton grinned. More seriously, he went on, "We made a routine request for an interview shortly after Ellison was sentenced and again a year later. Both were requests were refused. The request would have been repeated the following year but by then the prison authorities advised us he was in no fit state. As I think you know."

Blair knew. Jim claimed to have little memory of that time, but the descriptions Blair read of his behaviour suggested that Jim's senses had simply spiralled out of control. The sensory input was too much for him, and like a schizophrenic who can't silence the voices in his head, he eventually retreated into a world all his own, with little connection to reality as everyone else perceived it.

"So, you want my help getting Jim to agree to an interview?" Blair guessed.

"Do you think he'll agree if you ask him?" Shelton asked. He glanced up as the waitress appeared with their food.

Blair was grateful for the interruption because it gave him time to think the question over. He was sure Jim would _listen_ if he asked, but would he agree?

The cannelloni looked perfect, curls of parmesan and speckles of pepper decorating the top. Blair lifted his fork. "Jim - Ellison - must have had some reason for refusing before and the man is nothing if not stubborn. I doubt I can change his mind."

Shelton nodded as if he'd expected that. "Blair, in coming to you I'm violating protocol. I got my AD's permission to do this informally because I believe this is important enough."

"What is important?"

"Maybe I should give you some background first. The FBI defines a serial killer as one who has murdered three or more victims in separate incidents, with a 'cooling off' period between kills. As distinct from - "

Blair interrupted, " - From a mass murder which is a single event with multiple victims and a 'spree' which is a single event with murders in multiple locations. I know the basics."

Shelton smiled. "I'll skip 'Serial Killers 101', then, and talk about the present. You see, we used to assume a serial killer's motivation was sexual. In virtually every case prior to 1995, it was."

"Okay," Blair nodded.

"But in the last ten or twenty years we've seen the emergence of a different type of serial killer. Men like the Unabomber, the Beltway Snipers and the recent case in Dallas were not sexually motivated. These men killed from a distance. They were also more successful - if 'success' is the right word for a high body count - and they evaded capture for longer than most sex killers, in part because our profiling methods focus on sex as a motivation." He took a breath. "Still with me?"

"So far," Blair agreed.

"Technically these men are classed as terrorists, but they are also serial killers by our definition. I believe James Ellison represents a transition between these two categories of serial killer. There's no indication he was sexually motivated. Yet he killed up close and personal, which we consider a sexual act, even if actual sex isn't involved." He met Blair's eyes across the table. "So I'm very keen to complete the profile of Ellison in our files."

"Complete it?"

"Yes, a profile is made up of case evidence including the crime scene reports, court transcripts when they're available and the FBI interview data. The interview is an essential element because it tells us how the subject views himself and his crimes. Without that, we can't get inside his head."

"I see why it's important," Blair agreed. "But why _now_? It's been over a decade." He took another bite of cannelloni, a thought occurring to him suddenly. "Unless there's some connection to a current investigation...?"

"No, no, nothing like that."

"Then I don't get it."

Shelton smiled to himself, pushing his plate away. "My curiosity is personal, in a way. I was part of the team that wrote the original profile on Ellison's murders. At the time, it was an UNSUB profile - unknown subject. One of the things we identified in the profile was an UNSUB who was fascinated with police work or forensics, but it never occurred to any of us that our UNSUB might be a cop. The truth is Ellison is an enigma. He is from a good family, with none of the childhood incidents common to serial killers. He was a pillar of the community. His motivation for killing is still unclear. We can surmise he thought he was cleaning up the streets or some such, but we don't _know_."

"So it's your pet project?"

"I wouldn't be here if it were only intellectual curiosity. It's very difficult to predict the significance of a profile we don't have, but it's my personal belief that Ellison could provide some valuable insights that could increase our efficiency and ultimately save lives. Saving lives - that's what this is all about."

It was a compelling argument. Blair shook his head unhappily. "I wish I could help you, man, but Jim's not gonna talk to you just because I ask him."

"I didn't think so. It's not exactly what I want to ask of you."

"Oh?"

"I was under the impression that you and Ellison have developed a relationship. A friendship, maybe. The fact that you refer to him as 'Jim' confirms that for me. Blair, would _you_ be willing to interview him on behalf of the FBI?"

Blair swallowed, hard. "Agent Shelton, you know I signed a non-disclosure agreement. I can talk _to_ Jim, but I can't report on our conversations."

"I don't know the exact terms of your NDA, but I'm betting it gives you some leeway, because I know this is part of your research. Blair, I'm asking you to write a report that would be completely confidential. I'd see it, and perhaps three other agents at Quantico but that's all. The FBI _never_ publishes the details of these interviews and they're not even available internally without special clearance. Your report wouldn't even have Ellison's name on it."

"Why me?"

"You're the one he talks to. More than that, you're qualified."

Blair guessed that was a compliment. Shelton was right about one thing: as long as nothing was published Blair wouldn't be breaking his agreement. At least, not the letter of it. He shrugged awkwardly. "I don't know...I guess, maybe. What would this involve, if I agree?"

"There's a standard questionnaire. It's very detailed but you'll find a lot of questions irrelevant - you just answer the ones that fit, for each murder the subject is willing to discuss. An FBI team has a strict time limit on the interview, but you needn't adhere to that. If Ellison is still in an unstable state you might find it easier to take your time, integrate this with your other regular meetings. It's your show, your decision. If you need help at any time, you can call me." Shelton finished his glass of water. "What do you think?"

Blair sighed. He could appreciate the importance of the request. Thinking about it, it might even be good for Jim to talk about this stuff. He did have a tendency to keep things bottled up for too long. But it was a hell of a responsibility and Blair didn't feel qualified, whatever Shelton thought.

"I'm...willing to think about it. But I can't agree to this until I've discussed it with some people." With Jim. With David McLennan...and, oh, god! Matt. Matt would hate the idea.

***

#### A Few Nights Later

Blair woke to find the bed beside him cold and empty. Blearily he glanced at the alarm clock: the glowing figures read 03:48. He left the bed, reaching for his robe, but the robe wasn't where he left it. The house was warm at this time of year so rather than grope around for it he left the room nude.

There was a light on in the living room. Blair paused in the doorway. He could see Matt in the easy-chair, turning the pages of a book in the dim light of the table lamp. He was wearing Blair's robe. Blair knew without looking which book it was. Matt's old photo album.

"Are you alright, honey?"

Matt turned his head toward Blair. "Yeah. I just couldn't sleep." He beckoned Blair over.

Blair sat on the arm of the chair and leaned down for a kiss. "Jet lag?" he asked. Matt tasted of brandy.

"Maybe," Matt agreed. "I don't know." He turned a page in the book across his lap.

Blair saw Tania's face smiling up at them. God, but she had been beautiful... "How many times can I say I'm sorry?" Guilt washed over him. He should never have agreed to get involved with Ellison. sentinel or not, it wasn't worth it. Matt would always feel the loss of his sister. Blair had no right to hurt him like this.

Blair slid down from the chair and knelt on the ground between Matt's feet. He reached up and closed the photo album, gently lifting it from Matt's hands and laying it on the carpet. He looked up into Matt's dark eyes. "What do you need?"

"I...I keep thinking about when Tan...died."

"Oh, Matt."

"No, please, let me say this. You remember, I was away when it happened?"

"I remember," Blair answered and realised abruptly how much his recent business trip must have cost Matt emotionally: to leave Blair behind in Cascade with Ellison back in their lives. Damn, he should have insisted on going along.

"I think," Matt said, smiling a little, "that's why I had to get to know _you_. You were in our apartment that night. You made it all real to me." He covered Blair's hand with his. "I remember how hard it was, for both of us, waiting for the cops to figure something out. Not knowing who killed her or why she was dead..."

"And we still don't really know why."

"No, we don't." Matt sighed heavily, leaning forward. "Blair, what about the others? The newspapers said Ellison probably killed ten or eleven people. Maybe more. How many families are still going through what we did?"

"I don't know."

"Baby, do you _want_ to do this FBI job?"

Blair met his partner's earnest eyes, confused. They already had this conversation. Blair told Matt he wasn't going to the asylum again. He'd explained the request from the FBI but stressed he wasn't going to do it.

Blair shook his head. "Do I want to sit in a padded cell with a serial killer and listen to the intimate details of his murders? No!" He shifted to sit, rather than kneel, on the ground and laid his head on Matt's knee. "No, I don't want to," he repeated. "But," he added reluctantly, "Shelton was right about something. I might be the only person Ellison will talk to. If this profile is as important as Shelton thinks..." He sighed sleepily. "If it might help save someone's life down the road, I really _should_ do it."

Matt's fingers combed through Blair's curls. "You should let this grow again," he said absently.

Blair smiled.

"I'm beginning to think you're right, baby. You should do this."

"No, Matt. No way. We're fighting enough already - "

"I did a lot of thinking while I was away." Matt touched Blair's cheek gently. "Blair, honey, I know I was a son of a bitch. But it's important you understand this. I wasn't angry with you for visiting Ellison."

Blair knew that wasn't true. He began to protest, "Matt, you - " and found Matt's fingers covering his lips, silencing him.

"I was angry because you _care_ about him. You were coming home full of outrage over the way you thought he was being treated. You were coming home all smiles because he'd said something or done something for you. You _cared_, Blair and I _couldn't stand it_!"

Well, okay, there was some truth in that, but did Matt expect -

"And don't give me your human rights speech, damn it. Blair, he's a cold-blooded murderer. He should have been executed."

To that, Blair had no answer. Not now, not tonight, not with Tania's photographs still lying on the floor beside them. Blair began to understand. "You want me to do this job because you think that, in doing it, I'll come to hate him like you?"

Matt stood, drew Blair up with him and held him close, tight. "No, baby, no. I think you should do it because there are other families out there who still don't know for sure that it was Ellison who took someone they loved away."

"But I'm right, aren't I? You do think it will change what I feel?"

"Well...let's say that hope is the reason I can handle it." He shook his head. "Enough about Ellison, love. Let's go back to bed..."


	6. Chapter 6

If Blair was ambivalent about the notion of writing about Jim for the FBI, David McLennan was positively enthusiastic.

"Are you sure?" Blair asked him, still uncertain. "I thought you'd be more cautious about this."

"I wouldn't allow an FBI agent in here," David agreed. "But you've been good for Ellison. If he'll agree to talk to you, that will be a big leap in his progress. I think he will; he trusts you." He hesitated, looking at Blair. "It will be hard on you, though. Are you sure you're able to cope with this? Some of the things he'll say..."

Blair leaned back in his chair, looking at the high ceiling. "I know. I wouldn't have agreed but it does seem I'm the only one who can. _If_ I can."

"Do you have a counsellor or a therapist?"

"Me? Get out of town! I haven't needed anything like that since I figured out I'm gay."

David looked serious. "If you get Ellison to tell you about the murders, you'll need it. Believe me. If you don't have an outside therapist, perhaps you should meet with me. Or someone else on staff here?"

Blair frowned. He saw the sense in it, but he didn't much like the idea. "Well...we already talk after every session I have with Jim."

"Yes, for fifteen minutes and we only talk about _him_. I'm suggesting something more in-depth. I'm serious, Blair, this could bring up stuff you're not even aware you've buried." He nodded decisively. "I won't allow you to do this unless you agree. Me, or someone else." He smiled, softening it a little. "I won't bill you, if that's what you're worried about."

Blair returned his smile. "Okay. You've got a deal."

***

Jim slammed his fist into the metal screen. "I don't believe this!" Sandburg recoiled from his anger and Jim smiled, satisfied. "I trusted you. And you talked to the fucking Feds!"

"Jim, they came to me," Blair said reasonably. "Not the other way around."

But Jim wasn't in a mood to listen. "Was it worth it?" He turned on his heel and stalked away, wishing the cell was bigger so he could put some distance between them.

"Jim, I didn't tell a thing. I only agreed to ask you."

"No!" The shout was sandpaper rubbing his throat raw. "The answer is no! Now get out!" He needed to hit something. Jim drove his fist into the padded wall. It wasn't very satisfying. His mind kept repeating the same thing, driving out all other thought.

_I trusted you. I trusted you. I trusted you._

He heard the cell door open. The click was a thunderclap in his head.

Instead of letting Blair out, Sean came inside. "James," he said softly. "You need to calm down."

Jim saw the hypodermic in his hand. He snarled, "You come near me with that thing and I'm going to fucking kill you."

"If you won't calm yourself, James, I'll have to take steps."

Jim screamed out his frustration, long and loud, pounding the wall with his fists. _I trusted you. I trusted you._ He sank down, curling his body up as he leaned against the wall for support. _I trusted you._ He balled up his fists. His breath came in rough gasps. The fabric of his shirt clung to him painfully, needles prickling his skin.

He was aware of Sean's voice, and Blair's but he comprehended none of it. Language was gone.

_No! Stay in control. _

He clenched his fists as hard as he could. He turned his head upward, eyes closed. _Control. Control. I trusted..._

Jim's breathing steadied. He concentrated on that. In. Out. In. Out. His body shaking with the effort, he pushed the darkness back. He opened his eyes, not yet capable of speech.

He saw Sandburg approach the screen, reaching out to him.

And it was gone. As quickly as it came.

Jim took a deep breath, filling his starved lungs. "I'm here."

Blair smiled. "It's okay, Sean. He's okay."

Jim bowed his head, still getting used to being real again. He heard the whispered argument, but paid no attention. After a few moments, Sean left, locking the cell behind him.

Blair turned to Jim again. "Jim?"

"I'm here." He couldn't move yet, but he could speak.

Blair shook his head. "I don't understand you, man. You were a cop, Jim, and everything I know about you tells me you were good. Dedicated. What happened to turn you so completely against the police?"

"Nothing happened!" Jim snapped.

But Sandburg saw through Jim's lie. Jim could see it in his eyes. For a moment they just looked at each other. Then Sandburg shrugged and moved toward the cell door.

"Blair, wait," Jim said, not ready to be alone.

Sandburg looked back, his blue eyes meeting Jim's sadly.

"The truth is..." Jim began, a little afraid of what he would say, "I don't know if I _can_ talk about...about the murders I committed. I don't remember much from those days." There. That wasn't so bad.

Sandburg rolled his eyes. "That's not the truth. The truth is you're afraid to remember. And maybe that fear is the reason you're locked up in here."

The anger was back, hot and hard. "I am _not_ a coward!"

"I know you're not, man. So why not try to talk about it? You'll still be in control."

"Alright." It was said before Jim knew it.

Blair half-smiled. "Really?"

Jim nodded. "Yeah. I mean, if it's that important to you...I guess I owe you."

Jim thought that would please him, but it was clear from Blair's expression that wasn't what he wanted to hear. He rallied quickly, though. "Thanks, man. Uh...you ready to talk now, or - "

Jim pushed on because if he didn't he would find reasons to change his mind. "No time like now, Chief."

***

Blair sat in his customary place on the padded floor. He was at a bit of a loss for where to begin. Being blunt worked earlier but Jim's reaction was a primitive fear response. His swift change was unnerving, too. Blair's problem was he had no way to guess what scared Jim so much. Until he could talk with David, he should probably tread carefully.

Jim was still sitting at the rear of the cell. He was turned slightly toward the wall, his legs drawn up tightly to his chest. Again, it looked like a fear response. His voice was calm and assured; his body language gave the opposite impression.

"So, what do you want to know?" Jim broke a long silence.

"Uh...I..." Blair laughed nervously. "Hard to know where to begin. I guess...let's start with the facts and go from there. Sound okay?"

Jim uncurled his body slowly. "You gonna whip out a notebook?"

"No, I have a good memory." Blair swallowed. "I guess the first question would be how many did you kill? I know it's more than the three they claimed at your trial."

Jim nodded, confirming, Blair thought, the _more_ part, but he said nothing more.

"Look, man, if you don't want to - "

"It's okay," Jim interrupted. "It's just...I'm not sure how to answer that. It's...complicated."

"How is it complicated?"

"You asked how many I killed. Chief, I saw a lot of combat in South America. I can't count how many I might have killed."

"You know that's not what I meant."

"I know. But..." Jim sighed heavily. "It wasn't the way you think. I'm not saying I'm innocent, but I didn't...I'm not..." He broke off and was silent for a time. Finally he met Blair's eyes again. "I can give you a number but it's not...it might be misleading."

Blair wanted to challenge that statement, but he held his tongue. It was time to let Jim lead the conversation. The details could come later. "Okay. Give me a number."

"In Cascade, twenty three."

_Oh, my god._ Blair expected him to say ten, eleven, maybe twelve. The numbers usually associated with Ellison's name when the media discussed his case. _Twenty three_. Jim had never made a full confession. _In Cascade._ Did that mean there were others, outside the city? _Twenty three._ Twenty three murders. _Oh, Matt, you were so right..._

"I never wanted to see that look on your face," Jim said.

Blair looked up, shocked. Jim was standing, close to the screen. Blair hadn't seen him move. He pulled himself together with an effort. "Sorry, man. You just took me by surprise."

"They didn't lock me up for having good hearing."

"I remember, Jim. I was there."

***

_The door they were all watching opened and the jury began to file back into the courtroom. It had taken them a long time to come back with a verdict. _

_Matt's hand slipped into Blair's. Blair looked at him, asking silently if he was alright. _

_"If they let him go," Matt whispered, "I swear, I'm gonna kill him myself."_

_"It'll be okay, baby," Blair whispered back. He hadn't been in court for the full trial, just half of it at most, but he had heard much of the evidence. A lot of it was circumstantial, but a lot of it was damning. He knew that, if he were on the jury, he'd be voting for guilty. _

_Of course, Blair was hardly a neutral observer. He squeezed Matt's hand. _

_The formalities of criminal court were familiar from a dozen TV shows. Blair watched Ellison, not the judge or the jury. From where they were seated, Blair could see most of his profile. Ellison stood when told to, staring straight ahead. News reports the following morning would describe him as emotionless, but that wasn't what Blair saw. He saw a man keeping his feelings rigidly in check, as if he was afraid that showing any emotion would break him somehow. It was the same thing Blair observed in him on other days. _

_When the jury read out the verdict, Ellison didn't react. He seemed to expect it. The judge announced a date for the sentencing hearing - required in capital cases - and then Ellison was led away. As he turned to leave the courtroom, Ellison looked into the public gallery. Blair felt Matt flinch beside him, but Ellison's eyes weren't on them. His eyes searched the crowd and appeared to find who he was looking for. Blair couldn't resist glancing that way; he recognised Captain Banks but not the man with him. Another cop? _

_Blair turned to Matt and found him crying. Without thinking, he opened his arms and held him close. "It's okay, Matt, it's okay," he whispered._

***

"Twenty three," Blair repeated. Twenty three murders? No, Jim had qualified it by saying _In Cascade_. So there were more than twenty three... Blair swallowed. "Since 1991?"

Jim's expression became something between a smile and a grimace. "Ninety-three."

"Twenty three murders in five years."

Jim shook his head. "Look, I can only tell you how _I_ see it. I can't use the word 'murder'. Because it wasn't. Not to me. Not until the end."

"Then what would you call it?"

"Justice, sometimes. Pre-emptive strikes. Maybe. I don't know anymore, Chief."

_Oh, man..._ There was just no possible answer to that. Blair struggled to keep the revulsion out of his voice. "You said you see it as complicated. Can you explain that?"

Jim didn't answer for a long time. "I decided who to kill. I decided when and where and how. That counts as murder, doesn't it? But some of them won't be recorded that way."

"I'm not sure I understand."

Jim leaned closer to the screen, as if sharing a confidence. "When I was a rookie cop, I was involved in...an incident. You can look it up, it hit the headlines at the time. The perp took two women hostage. Someone else handled the negotiations. We didn't have SWAT on site so because of my army background they asked me to be the sniper. I monitored the situation from my position. As soon as it became clear he wasn't coming out on his own, I took him out."

Blair was frowning. That didn't sound like murder, it sounded like a cop doing his job. He said as much to Jim.

"You're missing the point, Chief. Whatever you call it, I shot to kill, and _did_ kill. Later, in '93, I remembered that day. When a cop uses lethal force, no one calls it murder. No one questions it, not really." Jim shrugged. "I don't see a difference. Decide who to kill. Make the kill. Same thing, different name. Sometimes I..." He stopped talking abruptly.

Blair waited. "Jim?" he prompted.

"Sandburg, this is why I wouldn't talk to the Feds. If you tell them this, they'll think...someone...knew and covered for me."

His concern seemed real. Blair nodded. "I won't tell them anything that might implicate someone else. If you don't trust me, then don't tell me." He couldn't make that a promise. Jim's phrasing implied 'someone' _didn't_ know, but Blair wasn't going to agree to lie for Jim if that wasn't the case.

Jim nodded, but he was silent for a long time. "I was a good cop, Sandburg. I worked my ass off to build a case and I'd watch the perp walk on some stupid technicality. Sometimes...when I knew...when I was absolutely sure the perp was guilty, and if the case worked out that way...I would...I let the situation escalate. I let it look like it was out of hand so I could make a legal kill. I could shoot a man in front of a street full of witnesses and I wasn't a murderer, Sandburg, I was a fucking hero."

***

"There was no regret in him, man. No remorse." Blair held his lover tightly, listening to his heartbeat. "He's proud of it, Matt."

Matt stroked Blair's hair gently. "Did you expect something different?" The words rumbled through his chest, where Blair's head lay.

Blair thought about the question. "I know what he is. I guess I thought ten years might have changed him."

"People like that don't change."

"I guess you're right." Blair lifted a leg over Matt's, trying to get as close as possible. He needed Matt's warmth tonight. "I think," he said, blinking back tears, "I think he honestly believes he was some kind of hero. Just misunderstood."

Matt said nothing. His hand moved slowly over Blair's shoulder, down his spine. He kissed the top of Blair's head and then, as Blair looked up, kissed his mouth. Blair responded immediately, rolling onto his back, pulling Matt with him. The kiss deepened and Blair gripped Matt's buttocks tightly, their bodies touching everywhere they could.

Matt's mouth moved to Blair's neck, little, nibbling kisses.

"Thanks," Blair whispered, between kisses.

Matt stopped, raising his body up to look into Blair's face. "For?"

"For not saying 'I told you so'." Blair explained. "Matt, let's get out of Cascade."

"What? Blair, honey..."

"I mean, let's go. Just us. Fly someplace, and just have fun."

"I only got back this week! I can't abandon the gallery..."

"I know, and I've got classes next week, too. I meant let's take the weekend. Leave first thing tomorrow. Matt, I think we need it."

Matt smiled. "A dirty weekend could be fun. But...oh, who cares! Where do you want to go?"

Blair relaxed at last. "I was thinking of a camping trip, but if it's a _dirty_ weekend you want...how about Vegas?"

"Sounds wonderful."


	7. Chapter 7

"Then what you told Blair Sandburg was the truth?"

Jim sighed, already bored with the ritual. "Of course it was the truth," he answered flatly. He looked up through the mesh screen to meet McLennan's eyes. "He's not coming back, is he?"

McLennan's eyes were serious. "Truthfully, James, I don't know. He hasn't contacted me."

Jim laced his fingers behind his head, leaning back against the padded wall. "He's not coming back."

"I think Blair is more resilient than you give him credit for. But why did you push him away so hard if you didn't want him to go?"

Jim was up in a trice, all pretence at relaxation gone. "Hey, _he_ asked _me_ for the truth. Is it my fault he couldn't handle it?"

"James, you've been talking with Blair for hours, every week, for five months now. I'm not sure I believe that your bit of truth just happened to be the one thing that would most shock him."

Jim made a rude gesture. "Fuck you, Doctor Freud. You think I _wanted_ to get rid of the only friend I've got in this place?"

"No," McLennan answered calmly. "But I think you needed to test the friendship. My question is why?"

_Bullshit. Why do I even listen to this crap!_ Jim scoffed, pacing away from the screen. McLennan did have a point, though Jim hated to admit it. He'd told Sandburg he didn't trust anyone. Jim learned that lesson when... But that was a memory he couldn't face.

Jim ran both hands through his thinning hair. "Doc, he came asking me to talk about the murders. I answered his questions. That's all."

***

_"...And that's about it," Jim concluded. His eyes took in everyone at the table: Brown, Taggert, Rafe; all the Major Crimes cops. "I'm going to talk to the mother today, see if she knows anything," he added, to pre-empt the request he knew Simon would make. _

_"Good," Simon said. He turned to Taggert. "Joel, you had a murder scene last night. What can you tell us?"_

_Taggert consulted his notes. "The vic was Abigail Cizek. She was - "_

_Shocked, Jim interrupted. "Abby?"_

_"You know her, Jim?" Simon asked. _

_"Abby Cizek is an informant. Or...she was." He looked at Joel. "She's dead?"_

_Joel nodded. "We haven't made a positive ID yet, Jim, but that was the ID in the murder victim's purse. The vic was a hooker; the scene looked like a robbery. There was no money in her wallet, no cards."_

_"Cause of death?" Jim pressed._

_"Gunshot wound. The autopsy will be later today."_

_Jim shook his head. It sounded like a typical prostitute killing, but this was Abby. "I'd like to see the autopsy report when it comes in."_

_"It's not your case, Jim," Simon said firmly._

_"No, sir." Jim backed down. He was interrupting the briefing, but damn it, Abby deserved better than this. He would get that report._

_"Joel," Simon prompted._

_Taggert checked his notes again. "No one witnessed the murder itself, but I've got a description of her last john and a couple of potential witnesses to chase down. I'll know more after the autopsy."_

_Jim stayed quiet as Simon wound up the briefing. A hooker being robbed, assaulted or raped wasn't exactly a rare occurrence in Cascade. Murder was less common, but Jim knew the less-than-savoury districts from his time in vice; a woman could be murdered in full view of twenty witnesses and not one of them would admit to seeing a damned thing. _

_Abby was...well, not a friend, but Jim owed her. His biggest case during his time with the vice squad involved a human trafficking ring: they took young women from poor countries, promising them a new life in the prosperous USA. Some of them were as young as thirteen when they reached the US. Instead of a new life they faced sexual slavery: forced prostitution. Most of them spoke no English and couldn't ask for help, even if there were anyone they could ask. Abby was one of the few local hookers willing to inform on the gang responsible. Her courage helped Jim break the ring, send the leaders to jail and help most of the women either return home or start a legal immigration process. _

_Now she was dead. Murdered in some back alley. _

_It was probably a coincidence..._

***

Jim stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel. He rubbed his body down vigorously, drying himself as quickly as he could. These brief moments, twice a week, were the only privacy he was allowed, and it wouldn't last for long. He pulled his pants on over still-damp skin because the orderlies would walk in when his fifteen minutes were up, whether he was ready or not.

He ran the towel over his chest and arms, over his still-flat stomach. His body was in good shape, all things considered. Jim still exercised every day, as much as was possible in his cell. He missed having weights to pull. He didn't have the strength he once had, but he was still fit, still able to defend himself if he needed to.

He threw the towel over his shoulder and was reaching for his clean t-shirt when he heard the usual perfunctory knock and the two orderlies came in. They waited while Jim finished dressing. Jim held out his hands, wrists together, without being asked. He allowed them to buckle the restraints around his wrists and ankles. It was such a waste of their time. If Jim planned to try anything, he would have been waiting behind the door for these jerks to barge in.

He took a deep breath, consciously opening his senses.

Exercising the body was easy. It was time to exercise his mind...

The hallway between the showers and Jim's cell was familiar, from the grey linoleum to the too-bright fluorescent lights. Jim paid no attention to that. He was interested in the room beyond. As he crossed the hallway he had time for a glimpse, but it was more than enough. Enough to see that they'd left the door ajar. Enough to see that the room was empty.

The exit door would be locked, of course, but Jim had followed Sandburg in and out of the building so many times that he knew the way, in his head. He knew it as completely as if he'd walked the route himself.

The door to the cell that was Jim's home had two locks. The first required a normal key, the second was an electronic swipe-card. The same man carried both keys. As security went, _that_ was pure idiocy.

It was almost a surprise that they were careful enough to lock the cell door before Sean swung back the metal screen and let Jim into the cell beyond. The control for the screen was secure; it could be unlocked from outside the cell or not at all, which meant that Jim was alone with Sean. Again, if Jim _wanted_ to cause trouble this was an opportunity. He stood passively while Shane removed his restraints then stepped back into the cell. The mesh screen swung back into place and Jim heard the lock engage.

He was caged again.

***

> 
>     ...unable to determine conclusively which of these wounds caused the death  
>     > of the subject. In addition the bruising to the subject's wrists and upper  
>     > arms indicate a struggle took place...
>     
>     
>     ...recent sexual activity, presumed consensual...
> 
>   
> 

_Jim laid down the written report and looked at the accompanying photographs. They showed in garish, unforgiving colour the many wounds and marks on Abby Cizek's body when she died. Three gunshot wounds: two in her chest, the third in her thigh. There were bruises, some fresh, some not, on her wrists, arms, back, buttocks...all over her body._

_There was a close-up photograph of a tattoo on Abby's left arm. It wasn't a professional tattoo: just a roughly-drawn design. Jim recognised the tattoo. The photograph showed a fresh cut through the middle of it._

_Jim flipped the folder closed. "What about her effects?" he asked Joel._

_"Uh..." Taggert scanned the paper. "...all the usual things. Lipstick, mirror, some small change - if she had any bills on her they were stolen..."_

_"Was she carrying a weapon?" Jim asked. Abby told him once she never went out on the streets unarmed. She'd been raped too many times._

_Taggert nodded. "Yeah, she had a .22. Fully loaded."_

_"Can I see that?" Jim glanced over the inventory. Abby's gun had a round in the chamber. A full magazine, plus one in the chamber. She was careful. Very careful. Jim didn't believe some random john got the jump on her. He handed the sheet back to Taggert. "I guess there's nothing here. Thanks, Joel."_

_"Any time."_

***

_Yellow tape still marked out the crime scene but all the work had been completed. No one was guarding the scene. No one would know Jim was here. He ducked under the tape and walked into the alley. The scene would be badly contaminated by now, but he wasn't looking for fingerprints or tracks._

_The chalk outline of her body was almost gone after the rain. Jim could still see traces of her blood on the asphalt. He knelt beside the chalk lines, looking at the ground. It was a crappy place for a fuck. Maybe Abby had fallen on hard times but she used to have higher standards than this. She would have had a place nearby, with a roof and a mattress, at least._

_She wasn't killed by a john. She knew her killer, but if she'd been expecting to drop her pants she wouldn't have come here. She'd have chosen somewhere a little cleaner._

_Jim remembered the cut on her arm, right through the tattoo. The M.E. described the cut as a defensive wound, but what if it wasn't defensive? What if it meant something else? The mutilation of the tattoo was a signature Jim remembered well._

_Jim did not go home that night. He drove out to Verne Jansen's estate, leaving the truck some distance away. He climbed the wall into the grounds. Walking through the perfectly landscaped garden, Jim's rage at Abby's senseless death intensified. Jansen was nothing but a pimp, yet somehow he could afford all this. It was a million-dollar estate at the very least. He had some other source of income._

_Jim found a place in the shadows near the house. He settled in to wait._

_Four hours and several eavesdropped conversations later, Jim knew everything he needed to know. The only problem was nothing he heard would be considered admissible evidence. He couldn't even tell Joel what he knew; technically his being there was a violation of Jansen's civil rights._

_Rights. The murdering bastard._

***

"So you decided to take justice into your own hands?"

Jim threw Blair an exasperated look. "It wasn't like that," he insisted.

Blair met his look, unafraid. "Then how was it, Jim?" Jim thought Blair was misunderstanding on purpose but he wasn't. He was trying to understand, but he couldn't follow Jim's reasoning.

"That trafficking case was the first time I led a major investigation. There were connections to Jansen, but I was so focussed on the street operation I didn't go after him. Hinted connections aren't evidence. _I_ made the call that let Jansen stay in business, ruining lives."

"You think it was the wrong decision? Even though you did succeed in breaking that ring?"

"I left Jansen free. When Abby died, I knew he was behind it. The slash through the tattoo was his signature."

Blair frowned. _Signature_ in the context of murder meant something a killer always did when he killed. Like Lash's yellow scarves. "You mean Jansen killed before?"

"No. The tattoo was something Jansen's girls wore. His version of a cattle brand. Jansen was an abusive bastard; if one of his girls tried to leave him he'd burn through it with a cigarette...or something."

"Sounds like a nice guy," Blair said. If someone were to tell Blair he'd led a sheltered life, he would have denied it. But stories like this made him believe it. Blair didn't understand that level of inhumanity. No more than he understood Jim's decision to kill because of it. "Okay, man, I get that Jansen was a bad guy. What I don't understand is...Jim, you were a cop. If you were so sure he was guilty, why couldn't you arrest him? Isn't that what cops do?"

"It doesn't work that way, Chief. I don't expect you to understand."

"Try me," Blair insisted. "You made a decision not to handle it as a cop. Why?"

"The evidence I had wasn't admissible. I couldn't even take what I heard to a judge and get a warrant."

Jim leaned forward, close to the screen, looking into Blair's eyes. Blair met his gaze, not sure what Jim was looking for. Jim's eyes narrowed. Abruptly, he backed off, rising to his feet. He walked away the few paces that the cell allowed, then spun around on his heel, throwing up his hands.

"What do you want from me?" Jim demanded, his voice rising to a shout. "You get to live in your fucking ivory tower, Blair, and I'm just the gutter you visit once a week."

"That's not fair..."

"Isn't it? Have you ever held a gun? Even at a firing range? Have you ever made a life-or-death decision? Ever fought for your life? Come on, Chief! Anything?"

Blair answered, "No."

Jim came up to the screen then. The anger was coming off him in waves and all of Blair's instincts told him to run, to get the fuck out of there. He stood up, took a step closer to the screen and faced Jim, and it was the bravest thing he'd ever done.

"When you've dug a grave for your best friend, or washed the blood of your lover off your hands, _then_ you get to judge me. Until then, you won't understand one...fucking...thing...about who I am."

Blair took a deep breath. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I'll never understand. It's true I haven't been through half of the trauma you have." He leaned forward, laying a hand on the screen. "But don't," he said determinedly, "accuse me of _judging_ you. The _state_ did that, Jim. Not me."

Jim took a breath as if to answer, but said nothing. He laid both fists against the screen, above Blair's head. "Chief, I did what every man does, what I'd been doing all of my life. I made a decision based on what I knew. I believed it was the right thing to do."

"But that decision was to commit murder." Blair looked up into Jim's eyes.

Jim shrugged. "That's one way to see it."

"Tell me another way."

"I did what the state would have done if we'd been able to prove everything he did. Or, I saved the lives of women he would have killed in the future."

"So...you saw yourself as protecting people?"

Jim gave that irritating shrug again. Finally, he nodded. "Protect and serve."

***

Blair carried a tray laden with coffee, sandwiches and more. He balanced the tray on one hand to open the kitchen door then headed into the living room. Stephen Ellison was waiting for him. Blair set the tray down on the coffee table and offered Stephen a plate.

"I saw him last week," Stephen said, reaching for a sandwich.

Blair nodded. "How is he?" When Stephen gave him a puzzled look Blair clarified, "With you, I mean."

"I can't believe the change in him," Stephen smiled. "Last year I was lucky to get a word out of him. Now he's lucid, he talks to me... I don't know how to thank you, Blair."

"He's learning to block out all that extra sensory input, but it'll be some time before he has complete control."

"Jim told me you came up with the idea of using a white noise generator."

Blair nodded, but said, "It wasn't my idea. I was talking the case over with a friend at Rainier - I never mention Jim's name, but most people know I've been working with a mental patient - and she suggested white noise. Apparently they use it to fool dogs or something. I thought it was worth a try."

"It's made a huge difference to Jim."

"Yes, it has." The white noise generator Blair's friend built enabled Jim to sleep undisturbed, without tranquilisers, for the first time in many years. Blair wanted Jim off the medication as much as possible, because he knew the drugs were getting in the way of Jim's ability to control his senses, but when Doctor McLennan first lowered the dosage of his nightly sedatives, Jim simply couldn't sleep. He was unable to control his gift enough to block out the night sounds of the asylum. Blair tried several different exercises with him but none helped him at night.

The white noise generator solved the problem. Blair's friend built him a portable prototype, and after seeing how well it worked for Jim the hospital agreed to install a permanent fixture in his cell. It did not interfere with the hospital security monitors, because they only monitored visually.

Stephen was giving him an odd look. "You don't look happy, Blair. Is this still a problem between you and Matt?"

Blair covered his hesitation by pouring coffee. "No, Matt's a lot happier lately. But Jim...I don't know what to make of him. Since we started talking about the murders..."

"He's defensive on that subject."

"Defensive? No, Stephen, he's _aggressive_. He seems to delight in shocking me, he tries to scare me...no, he _does_ scare me. It's hard to have a normal conversation with him."

Stephen nodded. "That sounds like Jim."

"So what do I do?"

Stephen was silent for a moment. "I think by now you know Jim better than I do, but I can tell you this much. He'll never admit it, but in Jim's mind, everyone he's ever cared about has betrayed him. Me when we were kids. We'd only just reconciled when he was arrested. Our mom left us, Dad refused to believe in him, Carolyn died. And then there was Captain Banks."

"Simon Banks? Jim's captain at Cascade PD?"

"Yeah. Jim asked him to testify on his side at Jim's sentencing, and Banks agreed. But the DA got hold of some information and...well, let's say Simon's testimony did a lot more harm than good. He was only telling the truth, I think, but Jim saw it as a betrayal."

"That's why he stopped cooperating with the authorities."

"Yes. What I'm saying is, if Jim's trying to scare you off, it could be _his_ fear talking. He cares about you."

"So he expects me to betray him."

"Just a theory."

"No, it makes sense." Blair sighed. "The trouble is I'm not sure he's wrong."

"What do you mean?"

Blair hesitated, but it was too late to take the words back and there was really no one else with whom he could share his worries. "I just don't know if what I'm doing is really in Jim's best interests."

"Of course it is! Blair, he's doing so much better now..."

"I know; that's not what I mean." Blair set his plate aside and met Stephen's eyes. "I'm making life bearable for him, and that's good. The goal is to get him back in control, but what happens to Jim when he gets there? He's in the asylum because he needed specialised care. What happens when he doesn't?"

Stephen nodded, understanding. "You're worried he'll be sent back to prison?"

"I'm worried they'll send him back to _death row_. Stephen, it goes against everything I believe in for me to be involved in that. But I'm already involved..." Blair shook his head. "There was a case in Arkansas a few years ago...um...Charles Singleton. It's illegal to execute someone who is insane so they forced him to take anti-psychotic drugs so he'd be sane enough for execution."

"It's okay. Jim's case is different."

"Are you certain?"

"I love my brother, Blair. I don't want to see him die." Stephen's eyes became distant. "The Singleton case happened not long after Jim's sentence was commuted, so it scared me, too." He looked at Blair again. "Our attorney said Jim's life is safe. His sentence was commuted to life without parole; if for any reason he were moved back to prison it would have to be to serve that sentence."

Blair let out the breath he had been holding. It was a relief and he knew Stephen would be sure of his facts.

Stephen added, "As I understand it, the only way Jim could face execution now is if he were tried for a new crime."

"Jim told me he killed twenty three people. He was only ever tried for three of them."

"But he's already serving a life sentence. The state won't waste money on a new trial. If Jim killed someone in prison, or if he tried to escape...that's different. But that wouldn't be _your_ responsibility, Blair. I think you're on safe ethical ground."

"Thanks, man. I feel better..."

"Stephen!" Matt's voice made both men turn toward the door. Matt stood in the doorway, frozen halfway through removing his coat. He recovered quickly. "Sorry. I'd forgotten you were coming today." He tossed the coat over his arm, walking toward Blair.

Blair stood to meet him halfway. "Hi, baby." He kissed Matt - just a quick kiss hello. "We were just..."

"Catching up. I heard." Matt helped himself to a sandwich from Blair's plate. "Are you staying for supper, Stephen? It's safe - Blair's not cooking tonight."

"Hey!" Blair protested.

Stephen smiled. "I'd love to stay, if I won't be intruding."

"You won't. I'll just go hang this up." Matt headed back into the hallway.

Stephen met Blair's eyes. He seemed a little uncomfortable, and Blair realised there was more he wanted to say about Jim. They couldn't talk in front of Matt; it just wasn't fair to him. Blair gave him a quick smile, a silent promise that they would find a moment to talk later.

As Matt returned, Blair picked up the coffee pot with a bright smile. "Who wants more coffee?"


	8. Chapter 8

#### October 2008

Friday dawned a bright, sunny day; unusual for October weather. The first time Blair drove out to the asylum, he remembered, it had been raining. He wished for rain today; it would match his mood. The day remained defiantly cheerful as he drove. Blair went through the gate with none of his usual banter. Lee seemed to recognise his mood and let him through without trying to chat. Blair drove on to the main building.

It was all routine, and that was good. Routine helped him not think. He showed his ID at reception and stood for the first security check: a guard patted him down and ran a metal detector over him. The receptionist gave him a visitor badge and Blair clipped it to his shirt. The guard waved him through the first door - Blair no longer had to wait for an escort at this stage - and he headed toward the maximum security wing.

At the entrance to maximum security the guard checked Blair's visitor ID carefully even though he knew Blair. Blair waited for the computer to confirm his authorisation.

"Are you alright, Doctor Sandburg? You don't seem yourself."

Blair forced a smile. It felt false. "Sure, man. It's just been a rough week."

The computer beeped. "All clear, Doctor Sandburg. They're expecting you." He rolled back the door to let Blair enter the wing.

"Thanks." He signed the entry book and waited for the second guard to finish his coffee. In this part of the asylum he wasn't allowed to walk around without an escort. The guard took Blair up two floors by elevator and through another airlock-like set of doors to Jim's ward. There the guard left him and Blair made an effort to put on a cheerful face for Craig.

"Hey, doc. Missed you last week."

"Yeah, sorry about that. What did I miss?"

Craig pulled a face. "Well, he wasn't happy you didn't show."

That sounded ominous. "Anything I need to know about?"

"I don't think so. He was very well behaved, really. Just...not happy." Craig gave Blair a cynical smile. "Maybe he's saving it for you."

_Maybe_... Blair didn't rise to the bait. He moved farther into the room, looking at the bank of security screens. He singled out Jim's cell easily. "Why do you do that?" he asked Craig.

"Do what?"

"You're always trying to make me afraid of him."

"Doc, I shouldn't have to _try_. If you ain't scared, you ain't thinkin'."

As Craig spoke, Blair's eyes were on Jim. Jim turned to the camera. There was no expression on his face, but it was clear to Blair he heard Craig's remark.

It was time for Blair to face him.

***

Jim was standing close to the mesh screen as Blair entered. A cat lying in wait at a mouse-hole.

"Nice of you to show up, Chief."

So that was how it was going to be. No care, no hearing. What else had Blair expected? Blair had a life outside these walls. Jim did not. This cell, this was his entire world. These weekly visits were the most human contact Jim was allowed. It didn't matter to Jim that Blair had a good reason for missing their meeting; at best Jim would see it as a broken promise and at worst, perhaps, a betrayal.

He understood that a simple apology wouldn't be enough. Blair looked at Jim, unsure what to say.

Jim turned away abruptly.

The anger in that movement impelled Blair forward and he ran up to the screen. "Jim, wait! I'm sorry!"

"Sure you are."

"I wouldn't have cancelled without good reason, Jim. I couldn't help...some things you just can't plan around, man."

"Some things. Who died?"

That was cruel. If someone Blair loved _had_ died, he would have hated Jim in that moment. Blair shook his head. "My partner...my lover...walked out on me. I was trying to fix it."

Blair had Jim's attention. He wasn't looking at Blair but he was listening, predator-still.

Blair went on, "I apologise for not giving you more notice that I couldn't come here. I'm really sorry I missed our visit. But I'm not going to apologise for thinking that just this once, a ten-year relationship was more important than two hours with you."

Jim moved toward the screen again. "Did you fix it?" he asked, his voice more gentle.

Blair shook his head. "No. It's over." He didn't want to say any more. Didn't want to come out to Jim...at least, not like this. He looked up at Jim, helplessly.

Jim looked back with the frozen, blank expression he used when he didn't want people to read him. Finally his voice utterly neutral, he said, "Why did he leave?" He put just a slight emphasis on _he_.

Blair felt his eyes go wide, and covered it by looking down. He truly didn't know why things fell apart when they did. They had problems, yes, and Blair's work with Jim was one of them but Jim wasn't the reason Matt left. He just...left. Blair came home from an evening lecture to find Matt's things gone and a note on the kitchen table. He spent the next few days trying to find out why, or what he could do to get Matt back. They talked, but to Blair the conversation felt like swimming through treacle.

_It's not working._

_I need a break._

_I'm sorry. I still love you but I can't do this._

_Please, _caro_, just let me go._

Finally, Blair was forced to accept it. They were over.

By then it was Saturday and he realised he'd completely forgotten his Friday appointment with Jim. He called Doctor McLennan to apologise but of course he couldn't speak to Jim. Jim didn't get phone calls.

He couldn't explain it to _himself_ so how could he explain to Jim? He remembered buying the house with Matt. It seemed like a huge commitment at the time and it scared him. He wondered if he had what it takes to stay in a relationship long-term. His mother never managed it. A year later he would have married Matt if it had been legal. It was a bitter irony, then, that Matt, and not Blair, was the one who gave up on them.

But he couldn't share any of that with Jim. So he simply shrugged. "I don't know," he said miserably. "We...we've had some problems but I didn't know it was breaking-up-bad."

"Did he dump you for someone else?" Jim's voice was more gentle than Blair had ever heard from him.

Blair looked up. "No. At least...he said not. I - I think that would have been easier, you know? At least that would be a reason. I could be angry if he was cheating. Instead I'm just...confused."

Jim knelt down, very close to the screen. "C'mere," he said softly.

After a moment, Blair knelt, too. Jim slid his hand through the food slot. Blair knew that if someone were watching the camera feed, he'd be in trouble. But he did what Jim wanted. He reached down and laid his hand in Jim's.

Jim's fingers closed around Blair's hand. The touch was warm and for a moment Blair felt Jim's strength, coiled tight. Jim could crush his hand if he wanted to, but the touch remained warm and comforting.

"I'm sorry," Jim said again. "You deserve better than him, Chief."

Blair managed a weak smile. "Thanks for the validation." He moved away, breaking the contact between them. "Shall we talk about you now?"

"If you want," Jim answered indifferently. He shifted back to his usual position, seated against the wall.

"How have your senses been since my last visit?"

Jim glanced up at the security camera. "Craig's been having girl trouble. You should tell him it's probably his new deodorant."

Blair stifled a chuckle. That was one way of answering. "That means you're still doing well, I take it?"

"It means I know you're stalling, Chief." A rare smile crossed Jim's lips for a moment. "If you want to quit, it's fine with me."

Jim was right. Blair _was_ stalling. It wasn't intentional, but their talks were approaching a place Blair felt very reluctant to go. Jim's suggestion that he could quit - quit talking about the murders - was very on-point. As a general guide to their discussions, Blair was using the list of murder victims the FBI _believed_ were Jim's victims. There were eleven names on that list. So far, Jim had denied none of them and he'd added more.

If Jim did deny any of the murders, Blair would have believed him. Jim had nothing to gain from lying to Blair, not at this stage. But Jim's honesty made Blair worried what he'd admit to next. Had the FBI profile contained some mistakes, even a single victim Jim denied, Blair would have been happier to press onward.

Because the next name on Blair's list was Brent Kraemer.

Blair knew the general outline of the case and it was enough, more than enough, to convince him he did _not_ want to hear more. He did not want to listen to Jim justify what he had done to Kraemer as he had all of the others. Someone (Jim Ellison?) broke into Kraemer's apartment, tied him to a wooden chair, doused both the apartment and the man with gasoline and tossed in a lighted match. Kraemer burned to death, and the police believed he was alive and conscious while it happened.

Knowing how carefully Jim planned each of his murders, knowing how precise and rehearsed each one had been, Blair didn't want to go there. No, sir!

Jim made a push-away gesture. "On second thought, Chief, skip it. I don't like seeing that look in your eyes."

"What look?" Blair challenged, but he knew. He wasn't great at hiding his feelings from Jim.

"You know damn well. Don't ask for truths you can't handle."

_I can handle it. I can._ Blair took a deep breath and stepped into the abyss. "Tell me about Brent Kraemer."

***

"Twenty." Jim sat on the floor of his cell, with his back against left wall. He stared straight ahead, not at Blair. He hadn't lied when he said he didn't like the look in Blair's eyes, and it was about to get worse. "Kraemer was number twenty." He tried to keep his voice neutral, but he failed. Jim let out his breath and leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. "I...I almost stopped after that. I tried to quit. I couldn't."

"Why did you decide to stop?"

_Then_ Jim looked at Blair. "Do you know what I did to him, Chief? Do you know how Kraemer died?"

Blair nodded, avoiding Jim's eyes. "Yes."

"Then don't ask stupid questions!" Jim let his gaze return to the ceiling. He took a deep breath, fighting off the memory. He knew when he agreed to this that he'd have to talk about it, but now the moment was here, he couldn't do it. Couldn't go back inside that day. Not again.

Suddenly he turned back to Blair, turning his head so fast that pain shot through his neck. "Wait. Do you think I _meant_ that to happen? Do you believe I _planned_ to..." Blair was still avoiding his eyes. "Shit. You do, don't you? Look at me."

Blair's blue eyes met his, clearly reluctant.

"I'm a killer, Chief. I'm not a fucking monster."

Blair took his time over answering and Jim could damn near _hear_ the thoughts. _Not a monster, Jim? Isn't every serial killer a monster? What makes you special? What makes you the exception? "I murdered twenty three people but I'm a nice guy, really?" Geez._

If that was really what Blair was thinking, he didn't say any of it out loud. Instead he said, "Jim, there may be things I don't know, but I can't see how that could have happened by accident. You tied him up..."

"You know what Kraemer did? What he was?"

Blair's expression was very, very careful. "I know he'd recently been cleared of child abuse charges."

_Oh, I see. The jury fucked up so you think he was innocent. _Jim couldn't keep the harshness out of his voice. "The man was a teacher, Blair. He used the classroom to pick out the most vulnerable kids and groom them, like a burglar casing a joint." Jim couldn't sit still; he started pacing the small space. "He and his friends raped children. They made home videos of little kids being tortured and fucked. The youngest was_three years old_."

"But he was acquitted of those charges, Jim."

"He was acquitted because during the trial two of the kids who were going to testify were found in the burned-out wreckage of a stolen SUV. Every cop on the case believed Kraemer arranged it, but we couldn't prove a damned thing. Without that testimony, the DA's case fell apart."

"That's why you decided to kill him?"

"Yes!" Jim rounded on the screen, on Blair. "Yes, I planned to kill him, but I didn't plan what happened. He fucked that one up himself."

"Jim," Blair began sceptically.

"I don't expect you to believe me," Jim growled. "I wanted him to feel just a little of what he put those children through. Fear. I meant it to look like a revenge killing. But I didn't mean to do it that way, Chief, I really didn't. I just wanted him to think I would..."

***

_Stark terror stole the arrogance from Kraemer's eyes. His eyes were white and staring above the silver-grey tape covering his mouth. _

_Jim patted him on the top of his head, a fatherly gesture. Kraemer was trying to speak; Jim wasn't listening. He stepped back, making sure that the chair - and Kraemer - was in exactly the right place. The sharp smell of gasoline was becoming overwhelming. Jim was less careful than usual about cleaning up the evidence, but the fire would take care of that. _

_Kraemer watched his every move, the wide eyes becoming bloodshot. _

_Finally, Jim picked up the gasoline can, pouring the contents in carefully chosen places throughout the room. The last of it he saved for Kraemer. He took a box of matches from his pocket. This part was tricky; with gasoline fumes in the air he had to work quickly now, or risk being caught in the fire himself._

_Kraemer struggled harder, his voice muffled by the tape. _

_Jim turned to him, the matches still in his gloved hand. "Did the children say no? Please? Don't?" He struck a match. _

_The yale lock clicked closed behind Jim as he left the apartment. It would take time for the fire to reach Kraemer. The fire alarms on Kraemer's floor were already disabled but Jim tampered with them only on that floor; everyone would have time to get out of the building. But Jim's work wasn't done._

_He crossed the street and hurried up the fire escape of the brownstone opposite. Up on the roof, Jim's rifle was waiting, right where he left it. Jim's keen eyes swept not only the roof where he stood, but every window within sight, every vantage point. He was well prepared by several visits to the location before this day. Only when certain he was unobserved did he kneel with the rifle, sighting through the gap left by a missing brick to the window of Kraemer's apartment. _

_Oh, that stupid bastard!_

_Even as Jim squeezed the trigger, Kraemer slid out of his sight and the bullet that should have ended his life whistled harmlessly past his ear. Jim kept the rifle trained on the broken window, hoping for another chance. It did not come. Kraemer was too panicked, and in trying to escape he had jerked the chair across the floor. It was probably a vain attempt to reach the phone, but whatever, it took him away from the window and Jim could not end this. _

_Through the gunsight, Jim saw the flames growing. Whether in his imagination, or in reality, he never knew, but he heard Kraemer's laboured breathing and his panicked grunts as he struggled helplessly to escape the bonds Jim inflicted on him. Now Jim wished he had worked less efficiently. He knew the exact moment the flames reached his victim. Still Jim waited, willing him to move, move back into the window so Jim could finish this before... _

_But it was too late. _

_Jim lived through all of it. Kraemer's pain echoed in his ears. Surely someone else would hear, and raise an alarm? Jim smelled flesh burning, even across the street he could smell it. After what seemed like hours, the alarm on the floor above tripped. Jim dropped the rifle, slamming his hands over his ears to block out the suddenly piercing sound. For a few moments, he fought the pain, clutching his ears. _

_People filled the street below. Their voices, filled with fear and confusion, reached Jim and he realised he was running out of time. _

_Kraemer was still alive in there. Still burning. _

_Jim could do nothing, though the horror of his mistake nearly paralysed him. He dismantled the rifle with hands that refused to steady, stowing the pieces in an old, scuffed  sports bag. He headed down to the street, using the confusion to escape unnoticed. His truck was waiting several blocks away. By the time he reached it he could no longer hear Kraemer screaming._

_He threw the sports back into the back and started to drive. _

***

_Sharp stones cut into Jim's palms and dug into his knees through the jeans he wore. Cars with roaring engines sped past on the nearby road but not even that roar could drown out the echoes of a man's muffled screams. Exhaust fumes thick in the air failed to mask the sick, sweet taste of human flesh cooking. It clung to the back of his throat. _

_Jim's stomach roiled again and he retched weakly, but there was nothing left in his stomach to throw up. Jim stayed there, on all fours in the ditch, fighting back the memory and the feelings that went with it. _

_It was too late to change anything now. Too late to regret it. It was done. Move the fuck on._

_When he felt a little steadier, Jim stood up slowly. He opened the truck and found a bottle of water to rinse his mouth. It helped. He leaned back against the side of the truck, just breathing. One breath in, filling his lungs. There was no gasoline stink to choke on, only the exhaust fumes of passing cars. Then a breath out, slowly, relaxing. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back. _

Never again,_ said the voice of his conscience._ Never again.

_The police siren shattered Jim's fragile calm. His eyes snapped open and he looked for the source of the sound. There was a state police patrol car pulling up behind his truck. _

_Panic filled him and it took a superhuman effort to stay where he was, and not reach for the gun concealed at the small of his back. Jim was on the interstate, heading north from Cascade. His plan had been to reach the wilderness before sundown and call Simon or Joel; he had the weekend off and that call would establish his alibi. Not that Jim expected to need an alibi, but he was always careful, just in case. If the young cop getting out of the patrol car delayed him, or remembered him, his alibi was shot. And if they found the unregistered rifle in the truck, Jim was in deep shit. _

_Jim straightened up, took a deep breath and tried to act normally. "Is there a problem, officer?"_

_"Car trouble, sir?" the cop asked. _

_His eyes took in the whole of the scene; he was young, but a smart one. Jim recognised the trap in the question. The cop saw no evidence Jim had been making repairs - because he hadn't been - so he'd suggested it because it was the most obvious excuse for being parked on the verge. If Jim grabbed it, the cop would know Jim was hiding something. _

_"Uh, no. I was feeling sick, dizzy, thought I should take myself off the road." Always tell as much of the truth as is safe, that way they'll never catch you in a lie. Jim considered showing the cop his shield but decided against it. That would make the encounter too memorable. Better to be just another driver on the road. No biggie. _

_"Do you need medical help, sir?"_

_"No, I think I'm okay now. Just needed some air." _Leave me the fuck alone!_ The gun holster dug into Jim's back. He saw himself drawing it, firing...that was idiocy. _

_"I'm going to have to ask you to move on, sir, you can't park your car here. Are you able to drive?"_

_Truthfully, Jim still felt light-headed, but he nodded. "Yeah, I'm okay."_

_The cop looked unconvinced. "There's a diner and motel about six miles on down the road. If you take my advice you'll stop there, get some rest."_

_"That's a good idea. I will." And now Jim was going to have to. Damn the good Samaritan! But the cop was right: Jim wasn't fit to drive all the way upstate. He took a last sip from his bottle of water and dropped the empty onto the passenger seat. He climbed into the truck. If the cop noticed Jim's gun, he said nothing. _

_Behind the wheel, Jim rubbed his face with both hands. Six miles. He could make it that far. _

***

_Monday morning, Jim was at the PD bright and early. He expected to be the first there, but Simon was waiting for him. _

_"Hi, Jim. How was the fishing trip?"_

_"Good."_

_"Catch anything?"_

_Jim grinned and held his hands about a metre apart. _

_Simon snorted. "Yeah, right."_

_"I swear!" Jim laughed._

_"You lie," Simon teased right back, but then he sobered. "Jim, I need a favour from you. We've got a particularly nasty case and I want your expertise. Are you up for it?"_

_Jim hesitated. He chose the weekend he was on leave to kill Kraemer so he couldn't be involved in investigating Kraemer's murder. But Simon wouldn't have waited so long to assign that case. The fire must have ensured they found the body right away. Jim shrugged. "Whatever you need. What's the case?"_

_"Brent Kraemer."_

Uh-oh._ "That jury of retards released him last week. What has he done now?"_

_"He's dead."_

_Jim's smile was cold. "Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy."_

_"Jim," Simon objected._

_"Don't tell me you disagree. You know he killed those two kids."_

_"You couldn't tie it to him and he was in custody when it happened. Besides, I don't think you'll be so pleased when you see the scene. Listen, it's Joel's case, but the crime scene is a real mess. I just want you to go over the scene; you've got a knack for spotting things the rest of us miss. If you find anything, turn it over to Joel and that's all. Unless you'd like to partner with him on this one. He could use the help, but I know you've got a heavy caseload already."_

_"I work alone," Jim answered, an automatic response. The scene of Kraemer's death was the last place he wanted to go back to. But Simon had him over a barrel. Fuck it. He couldn't say no._

***

"It's the first time," Blair concluded, "I've heard him express any remorse. That must be progress." Even to himself, his voice sounded too hopeful, like he wanted it to be true more than he believed it.

David McLennan placed the cup of camomile tea into Blair's hands. "It's something, yes." He sat down in his usual leather seat. "James rarely discusses his crimes with me and he's never talked about this one before. But I do know he's very good at telling me what he thinks I want to hear, not the truth. Are you sure that's not what he's doing with you?"

"No, I'm not _sure_," Blair admitted. "But I don't think that's it. I think he really felt guilt over this one."

"Guilt over the death? Or only the manner of it?"

Blair smiled bitterly. "Good question." He sipped the hot tea. Jim's story disturbed him on so many levels. "Jim thinks of his murders as justice. In this case...well, the victim certainly wasn't one of the good guys."

David's eyes narrowed. "Are you beginning to empathise with him?"

The question stopped Blair. His eyes widened and he stared at David. Empathise? No, that wasn't the right word. "I think," Blair began, "I'm coming to _understand_ him."

"Is that a good idea?"

"That's the point of all this, isn't it?"

David's look was serious. "So what is it you think you understand?"

"Stephen told me that when Jim was ten he witnessed the murder of someone he was close to. A father figure. He told the police what he saw but he'd seen in such detail, from such a distance, that no one believed his story. According to Stephen, their father beat Jim with his belt for lying to the police."

"You think he was telling the truth."

"I'm sure of it. His sentinel ability is genetic; it would have been there when he was a child. That childhood incident explains, at least for me, why he chose to take justice into his own hands when his fiancée was murdered."

"How so?"

"For a second time, his sentinel ability gave him the answers. Jim didn't witness Carolyn Plummer's murder; he _smelled_ her on Frazer, less than three hours after she died. He wasn't willing to risk being called a liar a second time. David, I'm not saying he was right to do it; obviously he wasn't. Just that I can see the stages that led him here." Blair sipped his tea again. "He's...damn, David, he was _so_ close to being right! Jim's reasoning is sound, every time, it's just that last step always takes him the wrong way." Blair set down the mug. "Years ago, when I was a student just starting to research sentinels, a Native American shaman told me that a true sentinel is both a protector and a predator. It's as if, with Jim, those two instincts are like crossed wires in his brain."

David looked surprised. "That's an...interesting way of seeing it."

The careful choice of the word "interesting" was not lost on Blair. "You think it's silly."

"No, I don't. I _do_ think it says more about you than it says about James. Blair, keep in mind that James Ellison is a very clever man. He feels no remorse for the murders he committed. Most of the time when he says he's sorry it means 'sorry he got caught'. If he feels some small guilt over Kraemer, that's good, yes, but this is not a man who wants rehabilitation."

It was, Blair thought, a harsh assessment of Jim, but not wrong. He nodded. "No, I don't suppose he does. He has nothing to gain from rehabilitation, after all. No matter what, he's going to die behind bars."

Rehabilitation. It wasn't something Blair seriously considered before. He considered it now.

Jim wasn't crazy, but there was something fundamentally wrong with his wiring. Blair was more and more certain that "something" was rooted in Jim's sentinel gift. No one else was trying to help Jim, not even David, not really. Everyone was willing to assign blame to Jim - and yes, it was true he was guilty - but when Jim refused to accept that blame they labelled him crazy or sick and moved on.

_Half of the world believes you're a sociopath. And you played the part for them ten years ago. You played it perfectly, but your conscience was killing you the whole time. The other half of the world, the ones who think they understand these things, figure you're schizophrenic. The psychiatrists here say you complain of hearing things, of strange tastes and smells. So they dope you up to keep you placid. None of them believe you._

No one cared. No one except Blair.

_Could_ Jim be rehabilitated? Would Blair be doing him any favours by trying?


	9. Chapter 9

Blair saved his work and closed down the word processor. He checked his email, dumped the spam and read through the rest quickly. There was a message from Naomi in India. It sounded like she was having a wonderful time. He typed a quick reply and had just clicked the send button when his telephone rang.

Blair hurried to the phone. Every time the phone rang it might be Matt. It was nearly a month since Matt left and Blair still hoped Matt would call...if only so he could hang up on him. He answered the phone on the fifth ring.

"Blair, it's David McLennan. I'm glad I caught you."

"Oh, hi, David." Blair took the phone with him to shut down the PC.

"I'm calling about Ellison. He's unwell; we've moved him to our infirmary."

Blair frowned. "What's wrong?"

"There's been a nasty strain of flu going around. Half of our staff have been down with it, and Ellison caught it."

"Have you called Stephen? How bad is it?"

"I've called Stephen Ellison, yes. Our initial concern was that flu could become pneumonia, but that danger seems past now. Ellison had a bad reaction to the anti-viral treatment we gave him, so he's still under observation. He's recovering."

Blair let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. When did Jim become so important to him?

"Blair, the reason I'm calling; normally I would suggest you skip tomorrow's visit, but Ellison has been asking for you. I just want to make sure you understand that we can't provide the usual level of security."

Blair relaxed. Security was the last thing on his mind. "That's okay, David. I'll be there." He had an urge to say more, send some kind of a message to Jim. But there was nothing he could say. "Tell him I'll be there," Blair said, and hoped it would be enough.

After he hung up the phone Blair turned the computer off. On the desk beside the PC lay the file he had been compiling: information he planned to share with Jim if an opportunity occurred. The file was becoming quite thick. He wondered if he should show it to David first. He nodded to himself and left the file near the front door where he wouldn't forget it.

***

The infirmary looked very much like an old-fashioned hospital ward; the bulk of it was one long room with beds along both sides, separated by curtains. Most of the beds were occupied. A male nurse led Blair through the ward. Jim was in a private room; not special treatment so much as because, even as sick as he was, Jim was considered dangerous.

The security guard unlocked the door and opened it for Blair. Jim lay in a hospital bed with the railings raised on both sides, as if he were a geriatric patient who might fall. Behind his head was a machine with several readouts, and wires ran from it to Jim's body, disappearing beneath the sheets. Blair didn't know enough to tell whether the vital signs the machine monitored were strong or weak.

Blair didn't enter, but looked at the nurse. "There's no chair. Could I borrow one?"

The nurse looked startled, as if it hadn't occurred to him Blair would stay long enough to want to sit. "Uh...sure." He took a chair from the main ward and carried it into the room.

"Thanks," Blair said. He put his hand on the door as the security guard tried to enter. "I'm fine alone," he insisted, and, when it looked as if the guard would argue, he added, "Please."

"There's no camera in there, Doctor."

"I know. I'm a big boy; I can look after myself." He pointedly closed the door.

Blair carried the chair over to Jim's side. "Hi, Jim. I hear you've been giving the doctors a good time."

Jim's eyes met his, but he didn't smile. "I wouldn't call it 'good', Blair." His voice sounded hoarse, as if he'd worn it out.

Blair slid his file under the chair and sat down. "Yeah, I know. Flu is miserable," he said sympathetically. "How are you feeling?"

"Bad." Jim turned his head toward Blair, meeting his eyes. "I can't control anything. I try, but..." Jim moved his hand, or tried to.

Blair caught a glimpse of a leather strap and was shocked even though he expected it. What did they think Jim was that they found it necessary to tie him down even when he was this sick? Blair leaned forward, resting his hand over Jim's, the sheet between them. "You're sick. It's not surprising your control is slipping." He saw Jim wince. "Are you okay, man?"

"It hurts," Jim said, and his voice had dropped to a whisper. "My skin...hurts."

"May I look?"

Jim nodded and Blair folded back the sheet carefully. Jim was wearing a simple hospital gown that covered his upper body and arms to the elbow. His wrist was strapped to the bed, a heavy duty restraint that left him almost no room for movement. The skin around the leather strap was red raw; not cut, but swollen and blistered.

"Oh, man..." Blair breathed. He looked up at Jim. "I've got to ask, man. Did you do this to yourself? Try to escape or something?"

"They said I did. I don't remember." Jim frowned, his gaze shifting to the corner of the room as if following something only he could see.

"Do you mean you blacked out and don't remember what happened? I mean, did you wake up in pain? Or did this come on gradually?"

"I don't know." Jim's eyes were still fixed on something in the corner. "I don't remember!"

Blair actually turned around to see what was there. He saw nothing. "It's okay, Jim. I'm going to take a look at you, is that okay?"

Jim nodded.

Hesitantly, because he was afraid of hurting Jim, Blair touched the raw skin. He tried to move Jim's wrist slightly, to pull the restraint clear. Jim moaned and Blair stopped, leaning closer to look but not touching anymore. It certainly _could_ have been the result of Jim repeatedly pulling against the restraints, but as Blair looked more closely he saw no bruising. It was more like a bad allergic reaction.

"That's painful," Blair said, mostly to himself.

Jim's look was scathing, as if Blair had said the dumbest thing in the world...and maybe he had. "Yeah," Jim grunted. After a moment, Jim added, "I can't move. That makes it worse."

Blair understood. In his cell Jim could move about, he didn't have to stay in one position so if something irritated his skin he could get away from it. Here, strapped to a hospital bed, he couldn't even scratch.

"You could take them off me," Jim suggested.

Blair backed away instinctively, then realised what he'd done and tried to take the movement back. He met Jim's eyes. "I don't think the doctors will agree to that, Jim. You've hurt people before."

"Try, Chief, please."

It was the _please_ that did it. Blair never heard Jim beg before. "Alright, Jim, I'll talk to them, see what I can do. But first I want to try to help you. If you can get back in control it won't hurt as much."

"Okay."

They hadn't done much work on Jim's sense of touch and now Blair cursed the omission. Whatever medicine he was taking for his flu was affecting his senses; that much was clear. It made sense to Blair; his knowledge of medicine was sketchy but he knew from his own experience that anti-viral drugs could do weird things to a person's head. If Jim was unable to concentrate his control would be the first thing to go. If the drugs had unexpected side effects - especially tactile ones - it was likely to be a hundred times worse for Jim than for most people. But what could Blair do about it? He had very little power here and Jim had almost no rights. All he could do was help Jim regain his precious control.

Blair moved his chair around so he sat near Jim's head. He began to speak, leading Jim into a simple meditation, trying to get him to relax. He could see it wasn't working. Jim shifted restlessly in the bed, and he kept looking around the room, and at Blair, not paying attention to Blair's voice. Blair kept trying for a while, patiently. After a few more minutes he sighed. "Jim, what's wrong?"

"I can't do it, Chief. I don't know...I'm..."

"It's okay," Blair said, softly reassuring. "I'll go and talk to your doctor. But while I'm out there, I want you to keep trying, Jim. Control your sense of touch the same way we do your hearing. Dial it back and you won't feel so much pain. Can you try?"

"I'm trying."

***

"_Doctor_ Sandburg, you have no authority here," the doctor repeated, patiently.

"You're right. I don't."

"Neither are you a medical doctor. What makes you think you can dictate the treatment of my patients?"

"I don't think I can." Blair kept his tone as reasonable as he could, but sitting across from the doctor it wasn't easy. "I'm _asking_ not dictating. You told me he's recovering."

"That's true, but..."

"Doctor, I do understand the precautions you need to take with Ellison. But he's in a lot of pain."

"We've given him pain medication."

"Well, it's not working. It probably won't work unless you give him something that will knock him out. Jim's sensory awareness - which includes his ability to feel pain - is unique."

"I don't think - "

"Damn it, talk to David McLennan! He'll confirm I know what I'm talking about."

"He does, Ben." David's voice came from the open doorway. Blair turned, beginning to smile, but David's look was not friendly. "Even so," he added, to Blair, "we're doing the best we can for James."

"Have you examined him, David? Have you seen his arms?"

David nodded gravely. "Yes I have, and I'm as concerned as you are. But we had to make a medical decision, Blair, and that decision was to keep him under observation. We can't keep an eye on his vitals up in the cells."

Blair shook his head, frustrated. "I understand that. I'm not questioning your treatment of him so far. But you've both told me he's recovering. Can't you re-evaluate that decision?" _Or am I going to have to start talking about human rights violations?_ Blair wondered if he was willing to go that far for Jim. If he tried that tack and failed, it would likely get him barred from the asylum.

_Try, Chief, please._

Yeah, Blair would go that far if he had to.

David looked from one man to the other. "Ben? It's your call."

He looked thoughtful. "Ellison doesn't need intensive care any longer but I'm not happy releasing him. He should at least have someone watching him in case of a relapse."

It was the best concession he was likely to get, so Blair grabbed it without really thinking it through. "_I_ can stay with him. In his cell, I mean. If he needs help, I can call someone."

David pulled out a chair and sat down beside Blair. "It would have to be a continuous watch. Why would you offer to do that?"

"Because..." Blair wondered if Jim was listening to them, but forged ahead anyway, "...because I care about him, and he's suffering. If something as simple as me sitting in the cell with him will get him out of those straps, then I'll do it."

"Ben?"

Ben sighed. "Alright. I won't compromise on security, though, which means it'll take a while to arrange for him to be moved."

"Understood. Blair, why don't we talk in my office while Ben calls security in." It was phrased as a suggestion, but Blair recognised an order.

He nodded. "I'll just let Jim know and then I'll join you."

***

"Are you sure you want to stay with Ellison?" David asked as they entered the elevator. "I won't hold you to it, Blair. I know your recent meetings have been hard on you emotionally."

It was true. They were still discussing Jim's murders and Blair didn't find it easy. If he was going to sit with Jim for long, they would have to think of something else to talk about. "_I'll_ hold me to it," he answered. "How can you tolerate this, David? If Jim was as sick as it sounds, there's no way it was necessary to chain him to the bed like that."

David pushed the button for the second floor. "People who underestimate James Ellison tend to get hurt, Blair. I agree with you that in this case he was probably too weak to hurt anyone, but I've explained before the reason we don't take chances with him."

Blair remembered: the recording David showed him the first time he visited Jim. Jim attacked a doctor without any kind of a warning. He'd crushed his neck, almost killing him, and broken another man's arm before the orderlies managed to subdue him.

"You've never witnessed one of his episodes," David added as the elevator doors opened.

Blair nodded, acknowledging that was true. "I'll stay with Jim as long as I have to," he promised.

David looked at Blair sympathetically. "Nothing to go home for?" he guessed

It was an astute guess. Blair didn't relish the idea of going home to an empty house and empty bed. Blair shrugged.

"Alright. I'll have one of the staff bedrooms made up for you; if you stay late you won't want to drive all the way back to Cascade."

Many of the roads were narrow and uneven; possibly dangerous to drive after dark, especially if he were tired. "Thanks, David," he said gratefully. "I didn't think of that."

They reached David's office. Blair took his usual seat and opened the file he was carrying. "Can I ask your advice about this?"

"What is it?"

"Information, mostly. I've been researching Jim's victims. I want to show him some of this - not today, but soon. I thought I should run it by you first."

David looked interested. He sat down, reaching for the file. "Let's take a look..."

***

#### 9.13pm

"Are you seriously expecting me to believe that?" Blair demanded, no longer trying to hide the irritation which was fast becoming anger. He was sitting on the floor of Jim's padded cell with his back to the mesh screen, leaning back against it. Jim sat in a similar position on the other side of the screen, so they were almost side-by-side. By turning his head just a little Blair could see Jim clearly. But right in that moment he didn't want to.

"It's the truth, Chief," Jim insisted.

"Bullshit. One or two murders, I might, _might_ buy it. But no one kills as many as you did if they don't get off on it."

Jim turned to look at him. "Blair, I killed because I thought it had to be done. Not because I got a kick out of killing."

That was enough. "Fine," Blair said. "Jim, I don't care what lies you need to tell yourself, or your psychiatrist. But I'm not gonna stay here for you to lie to _me_, man. We're past that." He stood abruptly and headed for the door. He pushed the buzzer. Blair felt a powerful urge to turn around, see if Jim was watching him, but he didn't. Through the tiny glass panel in the door he saw Sean coming to let him out.

"Blair, wait. I...you're right."

Blair looked at Jim.

Jim stood as close to the door as the mesh allowed, his eyes pleading. "I'm so used to playing this game with shrinks, I just...lying is automatic."

Jim's eyes darted to the door as they both heard a key turn in the lock.

"Stay. Please. I'll tell you everything...I'll try."

The door opened. "Ready to go, Doc?" Sean asked.

Blair glanced back to Jim. "No, not yet. I want to get the file I left with you."

"I'll get it for you, Doc. Would you like a coffee, too? We're just making a fresh pot."

"That sounds perfect. Thanks, man."

Sean left, locking the door.

Jim still stood close to the screen. One of his hands pressed against the mesh and the white gauze bandage on his wrist caught Blair's eye. At least the doctor had taken the trouble to treat the rash. Blair met Jim's eyes and as he did Jim visibly relaxed.

"So," Blair said, "tell me."

"I didn't lie," Jim began. "It's true that I didn't enjoy killing. Not the moment, the act of killing. But I did..." He sighed, leaning his forehead against the screen. "It was the hunt. That's how I thought of it. Hunting. That's what I loved. That's why I..." He rolled against the screen, slumping against it with his back to Blair.

Blair, understanding only a little, laid his hand on the screen opposite Jim's shoulder. "Jim, it's okay. We are friends. I won't turn away from the truth."

Jim didn't move. "It was like an addiction, Chief. Following them and watching their lives...finding my way in...figuring out how to do it, what would be least suspicious each time. Every hunt was new, a challenge. I couldn't help myself. Couldn't stop. I didn't see it at the time. I could always find reasons...excuses...for what I did."

He moved away from the screen and faced Blair. He met Blair's eyes and Blair returned his look. Jim took a breath as if to add something, but stopped. He seemed to be struggling with something.

Blair waited, trying to tell Jim with his eyes that it was safe for him to speak.

"When I discovered Tania was investigating me...I knew all I had to do was stop. No matter what she found, there wasn't enough evidence to tie any of the murders to me." Jim took a step closer to the screen, toward Blair.

The look in his eyes was heartbreaking but now, finally, Blair understood. "She wasn't a threat to you, was she? Maybe you convinced yourself she was, but that's not why you killed her. You killed Tania so you could keep on killing." On the last word, Blair's voice broke. He remembered Tania so vividly: her beautiful smile, the silken tumble of her hair that he always longed to touch, her serious side, her courage and dedication to her work, her blood staining the white arm of the couch when Blair found her body.

Understanding was not a comfort.

Jim said, "I realised almost right away it was a mistake. I knew she was innocent. I remember searching through everything she'd published, looking for something that might justify what I'd done. I...I didn't find anything, and I started asking myself what that said about me."

"So you turned yourself in."

"I confessed to murder because I couldn't keep telling myself it was anything _but_ murder. Because I saw..._you_ made me see...what I'd become."

_Jesus, Jim. Couldn't you have figured that out twenty-two deaths earlier?_ Blair stared up at Jim, searching for something to say.

Blair was certain he hadn't spoken aloud, but Jim answered, "I guess you're right. I don't deserve much credit for that." He moved closer, still watching Blair intently. "I want you to know that I do understand Tania was different."

His eyes were so sincere, so certain.

Blair's control snapped. "No, man, she wasn't!" he burst out, unable to hold it in a moment longer. "Good or bad, Jim, she's still dead! You feel guilty? Great. Kudos. But what about the others, man? You still think killing them was somehow okay, don't you?"

Jim didn't answer for a long time. He stood there, searching Blair's face. Blair returned his look steadily, demanding an answer.

Finally Jim threw up his hands. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"That's why you'll never leave this room."

"_Everyone_ I killed was a killer!"

"That doesn't give you the right to be judge, jury and executioner! Did you even _think_ about the people you were hurting? It's not the dead, man. What about the families of the people you murdered? Some of them had kids, Jim." He stopped, aware he might have said too much, but he'd been holding this in for a long, long time. Blair pressed onward. "Jansen had a daughter, Jim. Nine years old. She came home from a science fair and ran through the house to show daddy the prize she'd won. Daddy was floating dead in the swimming pool. What the fuck could he have done to justify you doing _that_ to a child?"

Jim wasn't watching Blair any longer. He wasn't looking at anything, really, just staring at a point on the wall. "I was doing my job," he said.

"Your _job_ was to bring the guilty to justice, Jim. Not to deal it yourself. And even if your job gave you the right, murder isn't justice, man. Not ever."

And Jim turned to Blair. Blair saw something feral flash into his eyes. Something that made Blair take a step back from the screen. It was instinctive - a primitive fear response.

"Jim?" he tried, uncertainly.

Jim launched himself at the screen. The change was so swift Blair could barely comprehend it. Jim shouted, but there were no words in that shout, just a raw rage. His hands clawed at the steel mesh, as if he thought he could punch through it. Through to Blair.

Blair backed up until his back was against the wall. "Jim," he tried again, raising his voice a little. "Jim, can you hear me?"

The cell door opened and Sean was there, carrying Blair's file and a plastic cup. He dropped both when he saw Jim. "Craig!" he yelled. Hot coffee spilled everywhere. Sean picked up Blair's file and shoved it into his hands. "Stay back, Doctor Sandburg. You'll be safe."

Jim's wordless shouting almost drowned out Sean's words.

Blair took the file without thinking because Sean shoved it at him, but he was looking at Jim, searching for any sign of the man he knew. There was blood coming from somewhere; Jim had hurt himself.

Craig arrived with a uniformed guard behind him. Sean threw his key to the guard, who closed the cell door behind Craig, locking them all inside. The guard called, "Now!" through the closed door.

The screen bisecting the cell opened outwards like a doorway. Blair found himself trapped behind it, the open part of the screen caging him in a corner. It left Craig and Sean in the larger part of the cell, with Jim.

Sean moved toward Jim and Blair thought he was going to grab him. So did Jim; his wild eyes followed Sean and he didn't notice Craig. Craig jabbed a hypodermic into Jim's thigh and Jim roared. Jim rounded on Craig, striking out. Craig ducked the first blow, grabbed Jim's wrist on the second and Jim's cry was one of real pain as Craig gripped his wrist. By then Sean was at his other side and together the two men wrestled Jim to the ground.

"No!" Jim shouted.

The word brought Blair forward; if Jim could verbalise perhaps there was still something in him that could reason.

"No! No!" Jim struggled against the men holding him and for an instant he met Blair's eyes and Blair saw the panic, the man inside Jim warring with something else, something primitive. In that instant he understood where stories of possession came from, because that was what he saw: some other presence battling Jim for his body. Something not human.

Jim's struggles were weaker now as the drug began to take effect. Craig carried a straitjacket and the two men began to work it over Jim's arms.

"No...please...no."

Blair couldn't watch any more. "Craig, wait," he called. "Let me try." He pushed the screen that trapped him, relieved when it moved.

"Are you crazy?" Craig demanded. "Get back in there!"

Blair slipped past the open screen. "Please, back off and let me help him."

Sean had stopped trying to force Jim into the straitjacket but was still holding him down. "If you get hurt..." he began.

"It's my responsibility," Blair insisted.

The two orderlies exchanged a glance and Craig nodded. "With the haloperidol in his system I don't think he's a serious danger. He'll be out, soon." Craig began to stand, releasing Jim. Sean was a touch slower.

Jim's arms were inside the sleeves of the straitjacket but they hadn't yet fastened it, so his movement was unrestricted. As soon as the two men were clear, Blair knelt beside Jim, laying a hand on his chest. "Jim, can you hear me?" He moved his hand to Jim's shoulder, then slid it beneath him, helping him to sit up. He spoke quietly, gently, and though he hadn't consciously done it, the words came out not in English, but Quechua. "Jim, listen to my voice. You know me. You trust me. Let me help you."

Some of the panic in Jim's eyes was fading, but it still wasn't exactly Jim.

"Doctor Sandburg, be careful..."

"Stay back. I'm fine." Blair lifted Jim to a sitting position and kept talking in that same quiet and gentle voice. "I'm sorry, Jim. Come back to me. I'm sorry."

Jim blinked and shook his head like a dog shaking off water. When he met Blair's eyes again, his gaze was clear and human and very confused.

Blair smiled, then his smile faded as he realised abruptly how close they were. He was holding Jim in his arms, their faces mere inches apart. They had barely even touched before today. The realisation was disorienting.

Jim struggled to reach for Blair. His hands were still tangled in the straitjacket and Blair understood, now, that it would be unwise to free him yet. But he reached for Jim's hand through the thick canvas. "Are you with me, Jim?"

Jim's other hand grasped the back of Blair's neck, pulling him close. He whispered hoarsely, "Chief, I'm alright." His breath was warm against the skin of Blair's neck. Blair wasn't certain what was happening, but he felt safe so he didn't pull away. He heard Jim take a slow, deep breath. He was scenting - maybe even tasting - Blair's skin. The thought made Blair's body heat and tighten; a massively inappropriate response under the circumstances. He shifted slightly, preparing to get up, and Jim's hand on his neck gripped more tightly. Jim turned his face into Blair's neck and whispered something, too quietly for Blair to hear.

Blair tried to draw back, to look at Jim. Instead Jim pulled him closer and kissed him, full on his lips.

It was so completely unexpected that Blair froze for a moment. Then his body did the thinking for him. His body knew how to respond to a kiss. Blair parted his lips and offered Jim his tongue. At first, Jim responded, kissing him back, but the movement made Blair lose his balance. He pushed against Jim's chest to steady himself and as he did he felt Jim's body go limp against him. Jim collapsed, the drug finally kicking in. Blair caught him as he fell.

"I...er...I think we should take it from here, Doctor Sandburg."

It was Sean's voice and Blair obeyed, getting up and backing off. He picked up his fallen file from behind the screen and watched the two men buckle the straitjacket onto the unconscious Jim.

"Is that really necessary?" Blair asked.

Craig answered, "Yes." He said nothing more until the job was done and both he and Sean were on Blair's side of the screen. "Usually when he wakes up after one of these episodes he's fine. Sometimes he's...not fine. Doc McLennan will decide when the jacket comes off."

The screen clicked into place and Sean pushed the buzzer at the door. Immediately Blair heard the key turn; the guard must have been right outside, waiting.

"Are you okay?" Craig asked Blair.

"I'm..." - he was still shaking - "okay. Is Jim alright?" Blair looked back into the cell. Jim hadn't moved.

"He just needs to sleep it off. When it's over, he won't remember a thing. Sometimes he asks, and we fill him in." He motioned Blair out of the cell and let the guard lock it up behind them.

"Does that happen a lot?" Blair asked, though he thought he knew the answer from talking with David. He knew that what David described as Jim's "episodes" were weeks, sometimes months apart.

"It used to be every month," Craig answered. It's been a while since the last one...uh...ten weeks at least."

"And I made it happen," Blair said guiltily.

"No, Doc, you didn't. I don't know what you said to him, but no one knows what sets him off." He gave Blair a sideways glance. "Sure you're okay?"

"Yeah."

"Well, my shift's over. I'll walk you down to the overnight rooms if you want."

Blair had forgotten he was supposed to be staying the night. It was just as well; as shaky as he felt now he didn't want to be driving. And David was _definitely_ going to want to talk to him in the morning. Blair had no idea what he was going to say to David. His body still tingled with the memory of Jim's kiss.


	10. Chapter 10

Jim woke in pain, in the dark.

The headache was familiar; a hangover from the drugs they injected into him. The straps of the straitjacket were digging into his back. He knew what that meant. He had done something wrong again. He had hurt someone, or tried to.

Jim's memory was frustratingly blank.

It wasn't just the headache. The skin of his ankles and wrists throbbed with pain. He remembered being in the infirmary, tortured by the restraints they insisted he wear. His hands, trapped within the straitjacket, hurt. Jim flexed his right hand experimentally and pain, sharp like knives, shot through him. Was his hand broken? He tried the left and that was painful, too, but not as much.

Jim struggled onto his side, and then onto his knees. He hated the straitjacket. They couldn't have devised a worse torture for him. It wasn't the constriction of movement, although that was uncomfortable. It was the sheer helplessness that Jim hated and feared. With this thing on, he was at anyone's mercy.

It brought back memories, terrible memories.

...Of pain...

...His own voice, screaming...

...Of fighting to get free, hands holding him down...

...The smell of blood and oil and filth...

...Of water, pouring over his face...

...Pain...

Finally on his knees, Jim shuffled toward the screen that bisected his cell. The lights were out, so he knew it would be a long time before someone came. He felt his way to the corner and stayed there, wedged between the screen and the padded wall. Having something solid on both sides of him gave him some security. He hated himself for needing it, hated his weakness, but there it was.

He leaned his head against the screen and waited for light.

What had he done this time?

***

Perhaps half an hour after the lights came on, Jim heard Doctor McLennan outside his cell. Jim was still huddled in the corner, unwilling to move, but he looked up as the cell door opened.

McLennan came over to where Jim sat, crouching on his side of the screen. "James, how are you?" he asked, his tone very careful.

Jim stared at the patch of floor between his feet. "What did I do?" he asked, afraid of the answer. He knew this ritual: he had to prove he wasn't batshit and if he could, they'd unstrap him.

"I don't know the full story, yet, James. I only read the night report. I haven't seen the tape or spoken to Blair."

Jim's head jerked up. "Blair?" _Oh, god, no..._ "Did I hurt Blair?"

McLennan's expression, obscured by the screen, gave nothing away. "Let's start with what _you_ remember, James."

"God damn it, don't make me play this game! He's the only friend I've got. Just tell me, did I hurt him?"

"Blair isn't injured," McLennan answered.

"Thank you," Jim breathed. The careful reply suggested something happened, something bad, but as long as Blair wasn't hurt, that was enough for Jim. For now. He relaxed a little.

"Now, tell me what you remember," McLennan pressed.

Jim frowned, trying to remember. "I was in the infirmary. Blair came. I asked him for help. They brought me back here...that's it. That's all I know."

"Do you remember talking to Blair here in your cell?"

As soon as McLennan said it, Jim did remember. Blair offered to sit with him so he didn't have to stay in the infirmary. Jim nodded.

"Do you remember what you talked about?"

"No...uh...him, mostly. His mom. Not me. I don't think...it's all mixed up in my head, Doc."

"Alright, James, that's enough for now. You seem fine. I'll tell the orderlies they can let you out of the straitjacket and bring you breakfast."

"Doc, what did I do to Blair?"

McLennan's expression became careful again. "James, I don't want to answer that until I've seen the tape. I'm going on someone else's version here."

"I need to know what I did. Is he okay?"

"I haven't spoken to him yet. James, the report described some...well, behaviour that, if it's true, is very unusual for you. Your episodes are usually simple violence."

This was sounding worse and worse. "And this time?" Jim asked tensely.

McLennan relented. "The report says you tried to sexually assault Blair."

Jim felt all the breath go out of him. Denial rose up at once. _No, I wouldn't. I couldn't..._

He had a flash of something that might have been memory: the spicy scent of Blair's skin, and the heat of his lips.

_No. No, no, no! I didn't!_

Did.

***

Blair stepped out of the shower feeling much better. He rubbed himself dry. He ran fingers through his hair in lieu of a comb. His tousled curls were getting long. Too long; he looked like he'd stepped out of the 1980's. He needed to decide whether he was going to cut his hair or let it grow out again. Matt liked his hair long... He couldn't shave and, looking at himself in the mirror, couldn't decide whether he was too old for stubble to look good. There was a little grey in his hair, but it wasn't noticeable yet. He shrugged at himself in the steamed-up mirror. _Who cares?_ He reached for his clothing and started to dress.

David was waiting in Blair's room. When he saw Blair in the doorway he stood. "How are you feeling?"

Obviously, David had heard what happened with Jim. Did he think Blair had been hurt last night? Blair said, "I'm fine."

"I, um, I heard about last night." David spoke awkwardly; most unusual for him. It was as if he was saying one thing, but meant something completely different. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

Blair nodded. "I think we should. How is he this morning? Have you seen him?"

"Yes, I have. James seems to be back to normal...for him. He remembers talking with you but nothing more. He never does remember after these episodes."

Blair nodded. He'd known that, but now he wasn't sure how he felt about it. On the one hand it would make life simpler if he could ignore what happened last night. But part of him didn't want to ignore it. Jim _kissed_ him, and Blair wanted to know what that meant.

_Don't be ridiculous. Jim's straight. He was engaged, remember? To a girl. And even if he's not, he's a prisoner. _

He couldn't even ask Jim if Jim didn't remember.

"Would you rather talk privately?" David asked him, "Or shall we chat over breakfast?"

Blair grinned. "Depends. How bad is your staff canteen?"

"The food is good. The coffee gives battery acid a bad name."

"Breakfast, then." Blair picked up his things - not much, as he hadn't planned on staying the night - and followed David out of the door. "You surprised me, David. I thought you were gonna chew me out for going into his cell."

"It's not the smartest thing you've ever done," David agreed, "but I'm not in the habit of blaming the victim."

That stopped Blair in his tracks. "Victim?" He stared at David. "What exactly do you think happened?"

It was David's turn to look puzzled. "The overnight report described it as a sexual assault."

_What the fuck?_ Blair could only stare at David, open-mouthed. That was so far from the truth he could hardly believe David said it.

David added, "I reviewed the security tape before coming to see you, and that appeared to support the report. From the look on your face, you disagree."

Blair found his voice. "You bet I do! I want to see that tape."

"Of course."

"I can't believe they would lie like that! Who wrote that report?"

"Sean Nash. He probably misinterpreted rather than lied, Blair. I would have reached the same conclusion myself from the tape. It shows you trying to push James away from you."

"I don't remember doing that. I was just trying to calm Jim down, he sorta hugged me, then he kissed me. He took me by surprise, but I didn't resist. Not as I remember it, anyway." He'd kissed Jim back (and liked it)...but that was private.

They both chose a "brown bag" breakfast from the staff restaurant because Blair wanted to see that security tape as soon as possible. Blair grabbed a bagel and a carton of juice; David chose toast. While they ate, David loaded the video from Jim's cell onto his computer, showing Blair what the camera captured of their encounter.

What Blair saw explained the misunderstanding. Blair remembered that moment: he started to kiss Jim back and he'd lost his balance, put a hand out to steady himself, and then Jim collapsed in his arms. From the camera's angle it did look as if Blair pushed Jim away, hard enough to make him fall. Since Sean's report already put a negative interpretation on what happened, Blair understood why David thought the camera showed an assault.

But he also saw something else. "David, could you replay the beginning?" Blair leaned closer to the computer and as the playback started again David silently handed Blair the mouse.

Blair watched himself ranting at Jim and winced, sure that he had somehow initiated Jim's episode. He saw Jim looking past him, saw Jim attack the screen and himself begin to back off. He watched Sean's arrival and saw himself trapped behind the mesh screen. _There!_ He froze the image quickly.

"Do you see it, David?"

"He's moving away from the screen. So?"

"Last night I thought he was trying to get to me. It looks that way. But look: as soon as the screen opened, he quit trying to punch his way through. But I'm still on the other side."

"The orderlies make better targets."

"Could be," Blair agreed, "but I think it's the cage. He wanted out of the cage. When the screen opened, it put me in the smaller part of the room, in the cage. Maybe he wasn't after me at all."

"Perhaps, but I think you're getting distracted."

Blair sighed. He had to explain what happened next. Blair sipped his juice and told David exactly what he remembered.

"You kissed him back," David said at the end of Blair's story.

Blair looked down, embarrassed. "For a second I did. It was automatic, David."

"I wasn't accusing. Just thinking you do like to make life complicated for yourself."

"I know. I haven't even tried to untangle the ethical issues yet."

"The ethics are your own. You're not James' doctor. Unless you feel there's an ethical conflict with the work you're doing for the FBI?"

Blair shook his head. "No, the profile is finished. I haven't passed it on to them yet, because I've still got to proof-read, but the work is done. I'm glad to see the end of it."

"Tough job?"

"It certainly wasn't fun."

"Will you continue coming here, then?"

"Of course I will!"

"It's not that long since you were telling me the stress was too much for you."

Blair had to concede that. "Yeah, it was, but that was then." He shrugged. "You know, Matt told me once that the reason he was pissed at me wasn't because I was visiting here, but because I cared about Jim. And I thought he was wrong. Part of me still does...I mean, I hate everything Jim's done, and he can be so...righteous about it. But he's in a hellish situation and...I guess I feel like someone's got to help him, so it might as well be me."

David chuckled suddenly. "Blair," he said gently, "the world won't end if you admit he's important to you."

Blair looked at the image on the screen: Blair holding Jim as he collapsed. "I don't know, David. Sometimes I think it might."

***

When Blair first began talking with Jim about his crimes, his visits to the asylum quickly fell into a routine, He spent two hours with Jim followed by an hour talking over the session with David. It wasn't exactly therapy, but Blair had to admit that he needed it. Talking with David helped him to understand Jim, and to distance himself from it all. Without that he couldn't have gone home to Matt every Friday and enjoyed every weekend.

In one of those early sessions, Blair had asked David why Jim willingly talked to him, when he wouldn't cooperate with his psychiatrist. In answer, David reached into one of the drawers in his office, took out a card and passed it to Blair across the table. "What do you see in this?" he asked.

Blair looked at the black ink blot. He rolled his eyes at David, laughing. "You've got to be kidding!"

David smiled, taking back the card. "Yes and no. I do use this test with patients, not for the results of the test itself, though that can be helpful, but because that first reaction is important. It tells me a lot about the person I'm dealing with and how they'll respond to a psychiatric evaluation."

"What did it tell you about me?"

"You're relaxed and confident, and you approach this with a sense of humour. But we were talking about Ellison."

The penny dropped and Blair's eyes went wide for a moment. "You tried that with Jim?"

David nodded. "Can you guess how he reacted?"

It wasn't hard to imagine. "Some version of 'Go fuck yourself', if I know Jim."

"It was the second or third session I had with him, and remember he'd been through some serious trauma before he came here. James looked me right in the eye - I think it was the first time he'd done that - and he said, 'It looks like a Rorschach ink blot test.'"

Blair thought that over. _Translation: 'Go fuck yourself', like I thought._ But it did seem to answer his original question. "He was telling you he wasn't willing to cooperate if you wanted to analyse him."

"Yes, but more than that, Blair. It warned me never to underestimate him. You don't expect a man with Ellison's background to know the name Rorschach, let alone use it correctly in context. It also told me James likes things black and white. He respects a person who deals with him directly and honestly. The way _you_ deal with everyone."

Blair remembered that conversation as he waited for the orderly to open Jim's cell. David had made a suggestion, one that could make a huge difference to Jim. And Blair agreed to David's proposal, but he still felt ambivalent about it. He felt he was crossing a line, maybe one best left alone.

Jim was at the back of the cell, sitting slumped against the wall. He looked up as the door swung open. He whispered, "Blair."  Jim got to his feet slowly, as if he were tired or in pain. "I didn't think I'd see you again."

Blair moved close to the screen as the door closed and clicked shut. "I don't scare that easily, Jim. I agreed yesterday to sit with you, remember?" He smiled, trying to keep his tone light. No lies; he wouldn't lie to Jim. Just giving him a chance to avoid the subject if he wanted to.

Jim didn't avoid it; Blair hadn't really thought he would. "They told me what happened," he said. "I don't remember, but, Blair, I'm so sorry..."

Blair interrupted quickly. "Jim, don't. Just...let me talk for a moment, okay?"

"Okay," Jim agreed, but he looked like he wanted to say no. He stood close to the screen, one hand resting on the mesh above his head. Blair saw that his fingers were cut and bruised; he remembered Jim clawing at the screen.

"I know what David - Doctor McLennan - told you, Jim. He was wrong. I've seen the camera recording and it does look like you attacked me, but that's not what happened. You didn't hurt me or harm me in any way. You don't owe me an apology, Jim. In fact I think maybe I owe you one."

"Why?"

"Because I think what happened last night was my fault."

Jim shook his head. "I don't remember. What happened?"

Blair hesitated.

"Chief, come on."

He tried to ignore the question. "Jim, let me finish what I'm saying. You probably don't know this, but when I first started coming here I chewed David out for keeping you in a room like this. I thought the problems you have with your senses were being made worse by this environment. I still believe that. But I also understand, now, that it's these violent episodes that are keeping you here. Probably the only thing keeping you here."

"Like hell. I think you're forgetting a little murder conviction."

"No, I'm not. I know you'll never have real freedom, Jim. I'm talking about these four walls. Let me ask you something: do you _want_ out of this room?"

Jim frowned at him. "I thought we agreed you'd quit asking stupid questions."

"Is it a stupid question?" Blair didn't think it was. As unpleasant as Jim's life was, Blair knew he was used to it now. This life made no demands on him; Jim considered himself crazy. He had no responsibilities here. There would be some attraction in that.

"You have no idea what my life is like, do you?" Jim slammed his fist against the mesh screen, but then, as if someone flipped a switch, he was calm. He looked down at the ground. "I can't remember the last time I saw sky, or grass. I never go outside. I don't get a single fucking second without a camera watching me. They feed me pills every day. No one tells me what's in them, but if I question it or refuse...well, being force-fed isn't much fun, Chief. I eat when someone delivers food and I eat whatever crap they serve because if I don't, I go hungry. I sleep when the lights go out. Hell, I even piss on their schedule." He looked at Blair unhappily. "That's my life, Chief, for the rest of my life. They'll never let me out of this room. They're too scared."

"Doctor McLennan wants the three of us to talk about what happened last night. He thinks I can help you remember. Jim, this is totally up to you, if you say no, I won't ask again. But if we can break through that memory block, David thinks you'll be able to work on controlling it. _If_ you're willing to cooperate with him, maybe you can get out of this room. Do you want that, Jim?"

"I want out of here, yes. I'm not going to talk about...some things...with a shrink."

_Why so stubborn, Jim? What's the point?_ "You've told me a great deal. What makes me different?"

"I _trust_ you."

Blair laid his hand on the screen, opposite Jim's. "Will you give this a try, Jim? Just let David sit in while we talk."

"Maybe. I guess I could do that, but...Blair, I _don't remember_. I can't. Don't you think I've tried? The only way I ever know I've even done something is when I wake up in a straitjacket."

"All I'm asking is you try, Jim. With my help. If you can't remember, I promise I'll tell you everything. Deal?"

Jim looked worried, perhaps even scared - and that was another first. But finally he nodded. "Deal."


	11. Chapter 11

#### December 2008 (Six Weeks Later)

Captain Simon Banks poured himself a fresh mug of coffee and stood at the glass separating his office from the bullpen while he drank. Most of the cops out there had made some half-hearted attempt to decorate their desks for Christmas and the result was a kaleidoscope of tinsel and streamers in clashing colours. Simon's office was determinedly undecorated, though when someone stuck a ring of holly on his door he didn't bother to remove it. He didn't feel very festive himself but he wouldn't spoil the fun for the rest of them.

The bullpen door opened and Simon saw his assistant walk in, escorting the man Simon was expecting. He was surprised he recognised Sandburg so easily: it had been a very long time and the man had _changed_. Simon remembered Sandburg as a scared, scruffy student with long hair and clothing that looked like it had been rejected by Goodwill. Ten years on, Doctor Sandburg walked confidently into the bullpen, smiling as he made small-talk with Simon's assistant. His short hair was neatly styled and he wore glasses. His clothing was smart-casual: grey pants with a matching jacket and a white shirt worn open-necked and without a tie.

Simon opened his office door as they reached him. "Doctor Sandburg," he said politely. "Come in, have a seat."

"Thanks." Sandburg glanced back at the busy bullpen before he walked into the office. It was the first sign of nerves Simon had seen.

Simon closed the office door behind them. "Can I get you a coffee?"

"Uh...thanks."

"Have a seat," he offered again, and Sandburg sat down. Simon poured coffee, offered sugar and milk. Routine politeness. He handed the mug to Sandburg and sat down behind the desk. "So. What can I do for you?" he asked. Sandburg's request to see him had been very vaguely worded.

"It's about Jim Ellison," Sandburg announced.

"No comment," Simon answered at once.

"I'm not a journalist. I'm..."

"I know who you are, Sandburg. Professor. Anthropology department, Rainier."

Sandburg sipped his coffee, saying nothing.

Simon relented. "Alright. What about Ellison?"

"I've been meeting with him since April this year, out at the asylum where he's being held. Jim's made a lot of progress..."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"He wants to see you."

_That_ Simon had not expected. He stared at Sandburg. "I don't think so."

"Just hear me out, man."

Simon nodded.

"Jim says he made a promise to you during his trial. He wants to keep it."

Simon remembered. During Jim's trial Simon visited him in prison. Jim asked him for a favour and in return Simon asked Jim to confirm which of their unsolved murders he had committed. Jim pointed out that he was on trial for his life and if he confessed to anything now, it would make his situation even worse than it was already.

"I'll be back, then,"  Simon told him. "After the trial."

"I know you will." Jim answered.

It wasn't a promise, not exactly. But it was an understanding.

After the trial Simon did return, but the first time Jim wouldn't talk and after that he refused to even see Simon. He'd never explained why, though Simon thought he knew: his testimony at Jim's sentencing had not exactly helped Jim's case.

_I don't believe this._ "It's a bit late for broken promises. What does any of this have to do with you, anyway? Ellison killed your girlfriend. Now you're his messenger?"

Sandburg smiled. "When you put it like that, I can see it sounds crazy. Jim's brother got in touch with me for professional reasons; he didn't know I had any connection to Jim. He asked me to meet with Jim. I did. We've become...friends." Sandburg took another sip of coffee then placed his mug on the desk. "You were his friend once, weren't you?"

"That," Simon asserted defensively, "was before I found out he was a serial killer."

"The way Jim tells it, your friendship lasted a little longer than that. But I guess that doesn't matter. Look, man, Jim's trying to make amends, as best he can. He told his psychiatrist that he's willing to make a full confession to the police, but he wants to speak to you, not some cop he doesn't know."

"Why me?"

Sandburg shrugged. "I didn't ask."

Simon wondered if that were true. "If you're his friend, you can guess," he suggested.

"I think he just wants to see a familiar face." Sandburg looked up at Simon, all blue eyes and sincerity. "I have no idea how you feel about Jim after all this time. Maybe you hate him, I don't know. I wouldn't blame you if you do."

"I don't hate him, Sandburg. Truth is, I haven't really thought about him for years." Though if that were the truth, it was because Simon worked hard _not_ to think about Ellison.

When Ellison was convicted of murder, Simon's major crimes team was left in utter chaos. The internal investigation went into every case Jim ever investigated. Everyone, including Simon, was under suspicion. Cops stick together, was the theory. Some cop had helped Ellison cover up his crimes.

To make matters worse, Simon had to keep the team going with his two top detectives gone: Ellison in prison and Joel Taggert, who left major crimes for IA. It turned out to be a good move for Joel - he was captain of Internal Affairs now - but Simon knew he wouldn't have moved if not for the Ellison case. Jim's betrayal hurt Joel deeply, yet he'd been the one who found the crucial evidence. Joel pressed on, building the case even though he hated doing it.

"Captain Banks, Jim doesn't have much of a life. He knows it's too late for him to make any true amends, but he wants to try. Will you meet with him? Just once?"

Simon sighed. "It's not that easy, Sandburg. I - " He broke off as someone tapped on his door and opened it without waiting for an invitation.

Detective Rafe stuck his head through the door, saw Sandburg and saw Simon's irritated look. "Sorry, Captain, but you asked to be informed. We've got a lead on the Ramsey case."

"Thanks, Rafe. I'll be right there." Simon waited for his door to close again. "Sandburg, we've got to cut this short."

"Alright," Sandburg nodded. "Will you at least _think_ about it?" He handed Simon a business card. "Call me, please."

"What do _you_ get out of this?" Simon asked him.

Sandburg met his eyes, silent for a moment. "I was lucky. When Tania was murdered, I got to see her killer brought to justice. There are others out there who don't have that. More than you know, Captain. The present is more important than the past. I get that, but for those who still don't know who killed their sons and fathers, it's the other way around. What do _I_ get out of this? I'm trying to do the right thing. That's all."

"So you talked Ellison into this?"

"No, I didn't. It was his choice."

Simon, conscious of the pressure of time, gestured to the door. "I'll call you," he promised.

***

Outside the Police Department building, Blair took a deep breath. There was ice in the air, a sharp cold filling his lungs. There would be snow before evening.

His meeting with Banks went better than he'd expected, but it wasn't as positive as he'd hoped. Anything less than a flat rejection was good, he told himself firmly.

Jim told Blair that, if Captain Banks refused even to consider meeting with him, Blair should hand over the information himself. Blair had Jim's full confession already: every name, every motive, every detail as Jim told him. It was all on his computer, locked away.

But Jim wanted to do this himself.

"You said it yourself, Chief," he said when Blair asked him why. "I wronged a lot of people. Simon was my friend and I...I really fucked him over. I owe him a chance to spit in my face if he wants to."

"Don't you think that's a bit masochistic?" Blair suggested.

Jim shook his head. "I screwed a friend. I should face him if he'll let me."

***

Jim Ellison wasn't the first cop to fuck up in a major way. Cops were human and humans make mistakes.

Did _indulging serial-killer tendencies_ qualify as fucking up, or did you need a whole new word for that? You probably needed a whole new _page_.

Cops stick together. Even after he heard Jim's confession, Simon's instinct was to stick by his friend, to help if he could. He _had_ tried, but Jim was guilty. There was only so much Simon could do for him. As the evidence mounted up, Simon was left wondering who in hell he had been friends with all those years.

That last thought made Simon hesitate. Was he refusing to see Ellison because he still held a grudge?

Simon _did_ resent what happened. Jim single-handedly wrecked Simon's career. No one was going to promote a police captain who failed to notice he had a serial killer in his unit. Simon was lucky he kept his job at all; he suspected the only reason he was still a captain was because the division couldn't handle more change.

***

#### Two Weeks Later

"Captain Banks, Cascade PD."

The receptionist looked closely at his shield and turned to the computer. "You're a little early, Captain. Take a seat, I'll let Doctor McLennan know you're waiting."

Simon sat down in the reception area. There were two rows of chairs facing each other across a coffee table. The area looked unused: there were no magazines or newspapers, just a neat stack of leaflets with information about the asylum. Simon glanced idly over one of the leaflets while he waited.

Though the security surrounding the building was more like a prison, the asylum was technically a hospital. According to the leaflet around half of the residents were there voluntarily for long-term psychiatric care. The other half were those confined by court order: convicts deemed criminally insane and others sectioned by doctors and judges. The leaflet promised that all patients were given a high level of care, regardless of their status. Simon wondered how well the institution lived up to its glossy promises.

A buzzer attracted his attention and Simon replaced the leaflet, looking up to see the heavy metal door swing open. A white-coated man looked across to where Simon waited, then came toward him. "Captain Banks?"

Simon stood. "Yes. You're McLennan?"

"That's right. You'll need to go through the metal detector before we go upstairs."

"Sure." Simon held still for the guard to run a wand over his body. He'd been advised of the rules before his visit and was carrying nothing metal. He accepted the visitor's badge from the guard and followed McLennan through the door.

"How is he?" Simon asked. Ever since he agreed to this visit, he'd been worried what he would find. It had been ten years; Jim must have changed and probably not for the better, judging by this environment. Yet he'd asked for this meeting...

"When did you last see him?" McLennan asked.

"In prison, ninety-eight."

"This will be a change, then." McLennan pushed the call button for the elevator. "James has had some serious problems, but he's made a lot of progress. He asked to see you: his idea, not mine, so I don't think you'll have difficulty communicating."

Simon frowned: that sounded ominous. "Does he have trouble communicating?"

"James gets distracted easily." He made an after-you gesture as the elevator doors opened. "I do want to prepare you for one thing. James has been subject to some violent episodes. I'm not trying to alarm you - it's not likely anything will happen - but understand that our precautions are serious. If he does become upset or angry, call someone."

Until McLennan said that, Simon felt nervous, but prepared. Now he was worried. He wasn't sure he was ready to face a Jim Ellison who was...damaged.

Damn, he still thought of Ellison as a friend. This was not going to be an easy interview.

***

Jim was already in the interview room when Simon arrived. It was a small room very much like the interrogation rooms at the PD: two chairs and a table, grey walls, a door with a large glass panel. Jim was sitting in a chair, his hands out of sight below the table. He looked up as Simon entered.

Seeing him was both a relief and a shock. The blue eyes that met Simon's were clear and intelligent: the man Simon remembered. But he looked _old_. Of course he was older; Simon expected that, he had a few grey hairs himself. But the man seated at the table had none of the energy Jim used to have. He was pale and drawn, deep lines etched into the skin around his eyes. He didn't stand as Simon came into the room.

"Hello, Jim." Simon offered his hand.

Jim raised both of his hands, revealing steel handcuffs on his wrists and a chain disappearing beneath the table. "I'd shake hands, but..."

"Is that really necessary?" Simon wondered aloud as he sat down.

"They think so. Better to be careful, I guess." Something that might have passed for a smile touched Jim's lips. "Don't look like that, Simon. This is ten times better than my living arrangements a year ago."

"Sandburg told me you're getting better."

This time the smile seemed genuine. "Yeah. Doc says maybe when spring comes I might be allowed to go outside."

_Maybe._ Go outside. Shit, that revealed so much.

"And don't pity me, either. I did this to myself, Simon." Jim sighed heavily. "I can't even figure out what I was thinking. I mean, I _remember_ but..." He shook his head. "You don't need to hear that."

"Then why am I here?" Simon asked carefully.

"I mean, I don't want to talk to you like you're my shrink. Simon, I wanted to talk to you in person because...well, I know you must have had some problems at the PD. Because of me."

"Oh, yeah. I think IA went through every case you ever touched."

"Which is one reason why I didn't talk about this at the time. I didn't want to make things worse for you."

Simon snapped, "You could have thought about that before - " He caught himself. "Shit, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You're right." Jim met Simon's eyes again. "Listen, you don't need to hear this from me if you'd rather not come out here. I've already told Blair everything; he can give you a copy of his file...or whatever it is. I think he's got everything on computer."

"So why drag me out here?"

"I thought I wanted to apologise, but I know I can't. There's nothing I can say that would cover it. Simon, I fucked up. I fucked up more than you know and whether I tell you everything now or you get the information from Sandburg, there are some things I did that you'll want to keep to yourself."

_That's not how it works, Jim._ "How much have you forgotten about being a cop?"

"I haven't forgotten anything. You just said IA looked into all my old cases, but I doubt they found much. I covered my tracks. But when I tell you everything, they'll be all over it again..." Jim stopped. "Do you want to record this, Simon?"

Simon reached into his jacket for his notebook. "I can't record; visitors aren't allowed to bring in anything metal." The notebook was better, anyway.

"They are such assholes. What am I gonna do, whittle a tape recorder into a lock-pick? In front of a cop?"

"I don't know, do you have a habit of escaping?"

"I haven't tried even once, Simon. I know I belong behind bars." He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Let's do this."

Jim began to talk. Simon listened, and made notes. He asked questions. Jim answered them. Simon tried not to think too much about what Jim was saying. _More than you know._ That was an understatement.

After a long silence, Simon closed the notebook and leaned back in his chair. "Aren't you afraid telling me all this will make trouble for you?"

Jim shrugged. "What if it does? If they add to my sentence, it's just for the sake of it, man. No matter what happens, I'm never getting out."

Simon nodded. "No, you're not. Is there more?"

"Yeah, but we're about to be interrupted. Will you come again? Or do you want to get the rest from Blair?"

Simon considered the question. "I honestly don't know. I'll call you."

Jim smiled. "You can't. Call Blair. He'll let me know."

"You don't get a phone call?"

"Not incoming. Doc's got a thing about routine. I'm allowed one call a week but it's got to be scheduled." He shrugged. "Could be worse. Hell, it _was_ worse. I'm doing okay."

Jim turned toward the door as an orderly knocked and it opened. "Time's up."

Simon stood. He tapped the notebook before pocketing it. "Jim...thanks for this. I do appreciate it."

"Even though it's a few years late?"

"Yeah, even though." Simon managed a smile. "Happy holidays, Jim."


	12. Chapter 12

#### April 2009 (Four Months Later)

Sunlight streamed through the open doorway ahead. From where he stood, Jim could smell spring flowers and apple blossom. It was a strong scent, more intense than he was used to, and for a moment he had to stop, concentrating to control his senses.

"If you're not ready, you don't have to go out there."

Doctor McLennan's voice made Jim realise he'd hesitated for too long. "I'm ready," he answered, speaking quietly.

He was ready. How many years since he last went outside? The enclosed courtyard wasn't exactly "outside", but it was the closest he would be allowed. McLennan never referred to this as a reward, but Jim knew that's what it was. He earned this. He earned it with intensive hours of therapy, talking about shit he hated even thinking about. He earned it with confessions and soul-searching and by saying all the right things. Privately, Jim thought that if he was truly making "progress", Blair deserved the credit, not McLennan. It was Blair he listened to; Blair whose opinion mattered to Jim. But if McLennan wanted to believe otherwise, Jim wouldn't spoil his illusions.

Jim's life was worth living for the first time in many years. Early in December he'd moved out of the padded cell and into a real room. He had an actual bed and wallpaper and a carpet. Maybe it wasn't the life he ever envisioned for himself, but five years in a padded cell gave him a whole new perspective on what it took to be happy.

He had a room. He had access to books from the hospital library, and he was allowed to watch a movie alternate Fridays as long as he didn't mind sharing the experience with a room full of crazy people. Once, that would have repulsed him; now he didn't mind...much. He wasn't exactly normal himself; there was something almost comforting about being around men who didn't pretend.

And he had friends. He had Blair, Stephen and Simon. Simon didn't visit any more but he wrote to Jim occasionally and now Jim could write back. At Christmas Simon sent Jim a Jags cap and a DVD of their best games. That meant a lot to Jim.

Jim paused in the doorway, feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin. He blinked against the light; it was brighter than he anticipated.

"How long can I stay outside?"

"As long as you need, within reason," McLennan told him. "The orderlies will keep an eye on you but they'll stay inside unless they're needed. You'll have privacy out there."

"Why would I...?" Jim began. His eyes finally adjusted to the brightness and as he focussed on the courtyard he saw Blair, waiting for him on a stone bench. Jim looked at McLennan. "Thank you."

The doctor smiled. "Enjoy."

Jim stepped over the threshold.

The small courtyard was entirely enclosed by the hospital walls but despite the long shadows a gardener had taken a lot of trouble to create a welcoming space. Three flower beds filled with spring flowers divided the courtyard. In the centre, an apple tree was in blossom. Two stone benches stood on either side of the tree.

Blair saw him, smiled and stood, coming toward Jim. "Hey, man. How've you been?"

"Okay. I'm still not sleeping well."

Blair nodded. "You were on sedatives for years, man. Maybe it's just taking you a long time to adjust. Or maybe you don't need that much sleep: you don't seem tired."

"No, I'm fine." Jim looked up. He saw blue sky above him, framed by the high walls. White clouds chased across the sky. For a moment it was dizzying, like vertigo.

"This must be a bit much for your senses," Blair said gently.

Jim tore his gaze away from the sky. "It's...a lot." He smiled. "It's amazing. I can stand here and I can breathe and I'm okay. Thanks to you."

"Not me, Jim. You did the hard work."

"Not alone." Impulsively, Jim started to reach for Blair. No chain held him back and that scared him. He let his hand drop, hoping Blair hadn't noticed.

"C'mon, let's sit down," Blair suggested. He took Jim's hand, the gesture as natural as if he did it every day, and led him to the bench. Blair released Jim's hand as he sat, straddling the bench so he was facing Jim.

"I am so proud of you, Jim. You've come such a long way this past year."

Jim shook his head. "You're giving me too much credit."

"Oh, come on! When I first visited you here, you were a basket case, crouching in the corner of your cell, jumping at every sound. Now look at you, man. You've got control of your gift. You've got control of yourself, without medication. You even talked to the police. Give _yourself_ some credit, Jim."

Jim drew back a little. "You sound like you're saying goodbye."

Blair hesitated, and Jim felt his stomach churn. Was Blair leaving?

"You're not...?" he began, but stopped, as if saying the words might make them true.

Blair looked uncomfortable. "Uh...not exactly, but... Jim, I've been coming here every week for a year now."

"You want to take a break?" Jim guessed. He understood, but he hated this. Blair's visits kept him going.

"Want to? No." Blair shook his head firmly. "The thing is, I have a job, Jim. I'm an anthropologist, and part of my work is doing research in South America. I used to spend six months out of every two years there. Since Stephen asked me to help you, I've put the trip off twice. If I don't go this year, I'm going to lose the funding for my international project."

Jim nodded. "When do you leave?" he asked.

"I don't know. I haven't made any arrangements yet."

"Six months." Jim kept his gaze on the flowers. "I can't imagine not seeing you for half a year. I guess I've gotten used to you being around."

"It'll have to be at least three months. But I'll stay in touch, man. I can write every week, and maybe David will let me call you."

For a moment Jim felt resentful. But then, looking at Blair he realised how wrong he was to feel that way. Blair sacrificed a lot for him. He wasn't being paid to help Jim; he got nothing out of this except Jim's friendship and what was that worth? If Blair's job required him to go away, then Blair had to go. That was the way real life worked.

"It's a long time since I was in South America. It'll be good to go with you."

Blair frowned. "Jim..."

"I mean, you can tell me about it. While you're there. You will, won't you?"

"Sure. I'm gonna miss you, man."

That made Jim turn to face Blair. "You really mean that, Chief?"

"Of course I do! I like spending time with you, man." Blair reached across the space that separated them and his hand stroked down Jim's forearm. It was a casual touch, but Jim felt it like electricity. Always before they had been separated by the screen in his cell or, since Jim moved, he was always in restraints when he was alone with Blair. Except that one episode he couldn't remember when, according to Blair, they had kissed. For the first time all of those barriers between them were gone and Jim jerked away from Blair's touch.

"Sorry, man," Blair said hastily.

"It's okay. I guess my skin is oversensitive."

Blair looked at him, his eyes narrow. "I _guess_ you freaked out because I touched you," he corrected, and Jim reminded himself not to lie to Blair. Not even little white lies.

"You've been starved of real human contact for a long time, man." Blair shifted a few inches back; a symbolic distance. His expression was serious. "I'm afraid this will just make it worse, but I want to be honest with you."

"Uh...you can tell me anything, I hope."

"Well...I'm gay..."

Jim smiled. "That's not news."

"I keep forgetting you're not. Jim, I _know_ that you're straight. You told me how much you loved your fiancée, but..."

"Blair, it's okay," Jim interrupted. "Carolyn - " He broke off, forgetting what he planned to say. Jim couldn't remember the last time he said her name. Carolyn. He used to keep a photograph of her beside his bed, right next to his spare gun. He kept the picture in prison, too, but he didn't know where it was now. Just one more loss. For a moment Jim couldn't speak. He shook his head to clear it. "Blair...what year is it?"

"2009," Blair answered.

Jim did the math in his head. "That's sixteen years. Sixteen years since I lost her."

"Damn. I'm sorry, man. I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, I'm glad you did." Jim was silent for a moment, remembering a life that was no longer real to him. Jim's life was high walls and locked doors. Carolyn was the memory of a dream. Blair...Blair was real.

Jim glanced over to the doorway, where an orderly lurked, pretending not to watch them. "Do you think the guards will keep their distance if I sit closer to you?"

Blair nodded. "Unless I call for help or something. David promised we'd have privacy. I signed about a hundred disclaimers so we could be alone for once."

"Good." Jim slid along the bench until their legs touched. Blair looked up at him, so trusting, in spite of everything Jim had done and still could do. Jim reached up and touched Blair's cheek. His skin was warm and rough with a hint of stubble. "Because," Jim went on, "if anyone comes near me with a needle full of Haldol, I might really hurt him. I want to remember this. Today." He leaned closer before he could lose his nerve. His fingers slid into the softness of Blair's curls. He pressed his lips to Blair's.

No lightning bolt struck. The world kept right on turning.

For an instant, Blair froze as if it were unexpected, though Jim was sure his intention had been clear. Then Blair made a small sound and opened his mouth beneath Jim's. Jim tasted coffee and chocolate. The kiss was warm and gentle and it didn't feel weird at all. It felt wonderful.

The tip of Blair's tongue pressed against Jim's lip. Jim drew back quickly. "Oh, Chief, don't." His voice sounded rough to his own ears.

"What's wrong?"

Jim stroked Blair's cheek, once, then let his hand fall. "If you give me tongue, we're gonna need a lot more privacy than we're allowed. I've been a long time without...this."

Blair smiled. "Ten years is a long time."

"Sixteen," Jim corrected gently. "But who's counting?"

Blair's eyes went wide. He said nothing, but Jim knew he understood. After a few moments, Blair laid his head on Jim's shoulder. Jim held him close.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" Jim asked him.

"Do _you_?"

"Ninety-eight. Tania Roca's apartment." Jim looked up at the sky, one arm still around Blair's shoulders. "I remember everything now my head isn't stuffed with drugs."

"You were kind to me that night," Blair remembered. "I thought you were a good man, someone who would really try to find the bastard who killed her. But you already knew. Her body was right there in the next room when you interviewed me, and you knew exactly who killed her."

Jim nodded. "I did."

"Yeah," Blair agreed.

"You loved her, didn't you?"

Blair moved away from him, looking into Jim's face. "No. Maybe I thought I did, but it was just hormones and wishful thinking." Blair looked down. "It took me a few more years to figure out that love, real love, isn't about sex. Sex is great, but it's not love. Love is hard work and you don't just give up on it because there are obstacles."

The way Matt apparently gave up on Blair, Jim realised.

"You know, Jim, I'm not saying you were right, but I understand why you went after Frazer. What he did to someone you loved... I'll never really understand the others but that one I get."

Jim smiled sadly. "A year ago, that would have been comforting."

"A year ago I couldn't have said it."

***

Blair drove home that afternoon in a haze of confusion.

Jim kissed him.

Jim _kissed_ him. And Jim said...well, he hadn't actually _said_ it, but Blair didn't think he'd misunderstood. But that wasn't what confused him so badly.

It was the way his heart leapt when Jim said...or didn't say...

Blair couldn't be in love with Jim. He just couldn't. It was crazy. Jim was in prison. Jim was never leaving prison. _Love is hard work and you don't just give up on it... _Well, sure, but there were obstacles and then there were _obstacles_.

A large _For Sale_ sign dominated the front of the house. Matt had offered to sell Blair his half of the title but Blair didn't want to stay. He kept the house while he still hoped Matt might move back in, but Blair knew, now, that he and Matt were over. He couldn't stay in the home they had shared. There were too many memories. Better to sell up and start over. Blair could find himself a smaller house near to Rainier.

He parked the car in the driveway, got out and set the car alarm. He jingled his keys looking for the front door key and noticed there was a light on inside. Blair frowned. He was getting sloppy if that light had been on all day.

Blair let himself into the house. He put his jacket away in the closet and checked the answering machine. There was a message from the realtor with an offer for the house. It wasn't as high as Blair wanted but it was a good offer. He made a mental note to return the call after he'd eaten. He sifted through the mail and found nothing important. He left the envelopes beside the telephone and headed into the living room.

Matt was sitting on the couch. The glass of water beside him suggested he'd been waiting for quite some time.

Blair froze in the doorway. "Matt?"

"I, er, let myself in."

"What are you doing here, Matt?" Blair didn't mean to sound hostile, but _why_ was Matt here? A dozen possibilities came to mind and none of them were good.

But the last thing he expected was the reply he got.

"I miss you," Matt said.


End file.
